


Grass, Fire, Water? My Only Weakness Is You!

by powercrow



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bad Jokes, Canonical Character Death, Coping Strategies, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Medical Topics including Cancer & Strokes, Millennials, Minivan Shenanigans, Not Just Pokeballs, Past Relationship(s), Pokemon GO Shenanigans, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Random X-Files References, Recovery, Slow Burn, Steve & Natasha Are Buds, The Pacific Northwest, feelings are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-10-28 16:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20781254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powercrow/pseuds/powercrow
Summary: Steve first notices Bucky at a Pokémon GO raid at the local Target.He’s immediately intrigued, but interpersonal relationships have been a realstrugglesince his mother’s death. Bucky’s not without his own bullshit after the disastrous end of a prior relationship. PoGo somehow brings them together anyways, and they become friends, catch lots of Pokémon, deal with their issues, and eventually fall in love.A collaboration for the Captain America Big Bang 2019 with art byremiarty





	1. An Onix-pected Attraction

**Author's Note:**

> **Content notes:** As mentioned in the tags, this story contains sensitive content, including death/end of life practices, medical conditions including cancer and strokes, grief, and descriptions of the above that might be disturbing. SO, if a chapter includes the above, I mention it in the notes at the beginning and try to describe the extent (brief mention vs extensive discussion, etc). All mistakes/potential insensitivities are my own - I have written from my own experiences but there is no universal way to go through this shit. 
> 
> **Other notes:**  
Allll the gratitude to [remiarty](https://twitter.com/remiarty) for being a dream of a partner throughout this experience!! 
> 
> Thank you thank you to ShinyNewPenny for beta reading!
> 
> Any of the Pokémon that Steve and Bucky encounter on their journey can be found in their [Pokédex](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20781254/chapters/49384613).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve notices a good looking guy while playing PoGO and gets all twisted up about it. After some introspection, he decides to pursue...friendship with said guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning:** Dreams with potentially disturbing medical imagery/mention of illness, mention of Sarah Rogers' death, discussion of grief/mourning.
> 
> Steve, Bucky and Nat brought to life in this chapter by remiarty, with the first of three arts on [twitter](https://twitter.com/remiarty/status/1183105287823208448?s=20)!!

Steve first notices him at a Pokémon Go raid at the local Target. 

He had been home earlier, ostensibly working when Natasha had texted him.

_Come to Target I need you_

He’d texted back. _I’m busy._

Sure, he’s busy. He’s incredibly busy scrubbing his floors, which had been looking distinctly dingy.

Earlier, he _had_ been writing, but an impulsive decision to make a side character a lab technician had sent him into a Google death spiral. He’d ended up with approximately sixty tabs open with details regarding all the different fields lab techs can work in, general education level, and other random details unnecessary to the story at large, as well as an overwhelming urge to organize his bookmarks. After, he’d had no choice but to organize all the files cluttering his desktop and downloads folder, and then he’d really needed a break from his computer.

So, now his hands are shriveled from hot water and the air is scented from Pine Sol, and when his phone starts to go off again, his arms are pleasantly fatigued as he checks the barrage of messages Natasha sent him.

_There’s a Kyogre raid here don’t have enough people._  
_Steve, new baby players without a Kyogre._  
_It’s at the Red Balls gym ;)_  


He pauses before he replies. Some Pokémon only appear in Pokémon gyms, which are usually real life places like Target or Starbucks or parks, and they require more than a player or two to defeat and capture them before the time limit runs out. But, coordinating enough people can sometimes be a challenge, and despite her tough façade, Natasha is a sucker for helping out new players, even ones that get in over their heads.

_Nat that’s a deterrent, **not** an incentive_  
_Oops, the balls, not the newbies_  


_Steve, you still don’t have a shiny right?_  


Steve does not, in fact, have a shiny Kyogre, but he does want one, very badly. His luck with getting shiny Pokémon variants is notoriously bad, but something about the purple whale is especially appealing. And, he doesn’t want to be a dick to some new players.

He’s mentally calculating the potential reward of a shiny Pokémon combined with being a good PoGo citizen against what feels like an equally strong desire to just stay home when another text comes through.

_When’s the last time you left the house?_

Steve winces. He hasn’t left his house in nearly three days. An inclination towards being reclusive paired with two work-from-home jobs necessitates setting firm goals and boundaries regarding out-of-the-house activities.

Normally, Steve’s goal is to get out of the house at least every other day. In fact, he’d started playing Pokémon Go as a distraction, and a built in reason to get out of the house. He definitely had not taken it up because of a deep and abiding love for the entire Pokémon franchise that is perhaps unbecoming in a 33 year old man.

Even with the best of intentions and with Pokémon as a motivator, he still fails to maintain said boundaries on a regular basis. He has been told in no uncertain terms that engineering chemistry between the characters of your latest romance novel does _not_ count as a social interaction.

Apparently arguing with customers while working your tech support side gig also does not count.

He asked.

Steve sighs heavily and goes to find some pants.

At Target, Steve’s newly reminded that he _really fucking hates_ playing Pokémon Go here. The cell reception is total balls, kicking players out of the app every few minutes.

Steve’s pretty sure that people not playing Pokémon Go also hate raids at the Target. The employees are always visibly irritated by phone-distracted individuals wandering in and out of the store on the eternal hunt for adequate cell reception, or setting up in the Starbucks for hours without buying anything. Shoppers get freaked out by the large crowds of people on their phones in front of the store, or clumped up in the house-ware aisles.

Steve knows it looks weird to the outside eye.

He nudges Nat, grumbling,“Who the hell named this gym anyway?”

They’ve been sitting on the bench in front of Target for at least fifteen minutes now, jumping in and out of the raid lobby as reception issues and poor communication wreak havoc with the raid. Distracted by her phone, Natasha waves vaguely at the front of the store, where several large, red cement balls “decorate” the front of the store in a really unfortunate design decision.

Steve slowly slumps down further on the bench. It’s unseasonably warm for Washington in April, and the ice in Steve’s iced coffee is a distant, sad memory. Sweat has started beading on his forehead and pooling at his lower back, he’s sure he’s turning a little pink, and he’s seriously regretting wearing a hoodie and leaving his sunglasses in the car.

Like a total idiot, he’s not wearing anything under his sweatshirt, and he’s not about to sit in front of Target shirtless in skinny jeans playing Pokémon Go. Even his minimum standards for presenting himself in public these days haven’t sunk so low. And with his luck, he’d get arrested for indecent exposure.

Pushing the sleeves of his hoodie to his elbows, he cracks his knuckles and then his neck, eliciting a grimace from Natasha. He’s feeling a little impatient and a lot uncomfortable, but Natasha next to him looks as cool and unruffled as she ever does in public, legs folded criss cross applesauce, dressed in gym clothes.

Her long, curly red hair is pulled up, bundled on top of her head in a huge mass and she should look like a hyper-pigmented tomato, but instead she looks deliberately undone. A few curls spiral down the nape of her neck and over-sized sunglasses cover her eyes. She’s wearing her normal work out gear - tight black leggings, an exercise top that is more mesh than shirt and slip on black leather sneakers that seem to only have a passing acquaintance with athletic endeavors. While Steve stares at her, she peels out of her bright blue pull over, revealing muscled arms and hints of her mildly creepy web tattoo visible through her shirt.

She’s typing on her phone a million miles a minute, flipping back and forth through the Discord app and Pokémon Go, pulling up email and assorted social media, only to close each window almost as soon as she looks at it.

“Okay Steve, jump in again, I think everyone’s here.”

Steve rolls his eyes, kind of past being gracious at this point despite his desire for another Kyogre and to be a good friend. The raid lobby fills, and then empties again as people lose cell reception.  
Steve gets up to pace, restless. He hops on one of the big red balls, balancing. Natasha gives him a side eye he can see even through those bug eye glasses. He’s not exactly known for his coordination and grace.

He briefly considers snapping himself _This raid is literally balls_ but discards the idea. He doesn’t need (another) broken bone and a phone to match, especially with Natasha present to witness it all. Her super power since childhood has been capturing photographic proof of any embarrassing moments Steve may be involved in almost before they happen. He has long suspected her camera app activates as soon as he even begins to think something stupid.

Then, he notices the guy down a few feet from them, leaning against the wall and braced with a foot. He’s not familiar, and as Steve leans forward to get a better look, he wobbles a little as..._something_ in his gut uncurls, attentive, anticipatory. It’s unexpected, and he inhales, the air sharp and suspended in his lungs before normalcy asserts itself, breath rushing back out.

Regaining his balance, he hops back down. Then, as he ambles back over to Natasha, he squints, cursing his out of date glasses prescription. But, even with the distance…the thickness of his thighs are really something, encased in tight, light gray jeans and beat up, black leather boots.

The rest of him looks just as good; solid looking shoulders in a faded red t-shirt, long dark hair, head bent over a phone. Steve briefly thinks that this guy might not even play Pokémon Go - maybe he’s just hanging out in front of Target on a weekday for fun. Maybe he works there, and that’s why he’s wearing a red shirt. Hell, maybe he got lost looking for Walmart.

But then, finally, _fucking finally_ with less than 8 minutes left, the raid gets going and Steve can see the tell-tale tapping of fingers on a phone screen.

He’s weirdly relieved because this guy is definitely a nerd and maybe he’ll have a chance to see those legs again, maybe up close and see if his face matches the rest of him. Then he just feels weird because Steve doesn’t exactly date, hasn’t been dating, and in fact has to manufacture reasons to force himself to leave his house. So, this whole line of thought is ridiculous and unwarranted.

He elbows Natasha, who has produced a second phone and is busily tapping on both at the same time. She often plays for Clint, her… someone who has the egregious bad taste to simultaneously work a regular 9-5 and be less committed to PoGo.

“Nat, who is that?” He jerks his head towards the guy, not as subtly as he hopes. Nat somehow knows everyone in the local PoGo community, and even people adjacent to it that she has no business knowing. She glances up, looks over,

“Hmmm…. I think he’s new to the area, I’ve seen him around lately, but he seems shy, shows up but keeps to himself.” They finish the raid, handily defeating Kyogre, receiving their reward of Pokéballs, and moving on to trying to capture it. Steve has no luck with getting a shiny, keeps fucking up his throws and missing the whale, but he can tell by Nat’s pleased little smile that she’s lucked out on at least one account.

As Steve wastes the last of his balls, he looks back up and towards the guy, who is…looking back at them, caught in the act of tucking his phone in his pocket. He gives a little wave in their direction _Thanks for the help_. Surprised, Steve waves back, as does Natasha No, thank you. Steve has a brief impression of pale eyes, and dark stubble, but his glasses are really not doing the job they should be and that’s all he gets before the guy is turning and walking away.

[](https://twitter.com/remiarty/status/1183105287823208448?s=20)

Steve doesn’t check his ass out at all. Not even a little. His glasses are up to that, at least, though he makes a mental note to call his optometrist.

Phone stuffed into his own pocket, Steve waits while Nat finishes catching. He doesn’t offer to help - he’s a shitty catcher, too impatient to improve his throwing technique and Natasha is slow but precise. She doesn’t need an assist from him.

“His trainer name is BuckDaBAMF, if you want to look him up, same on Discord. Only person I didn’t recognize in the raid.”

Immediately defensive, he retorts “Who says I want to look him up?”

Nat laughs, dry like leaves. “Do what you want Steve, but you were staring pretty hard.”

His face is red, redder than can be attributed to the sun. “Yeah, so?”

“So, _nothing_, don’t be a dick. You haven’t even checked someone out in forever, you already know you got something in common despite his dumb ass name.”

He attempts a conversational redirect, “Yeah, maybe, I dunno Nat, you gonna do anymore raids?"

Nat’s already getting up, slinging her huge bag over her shoulder. She accepts his deflection (redirect successful!).

“Nah, I’m going to a class and then I’m gonna work for a while. Coffee tomorrow? We can trade.”

Nat’s an accountant, specializes in tracking down missing money. Technically she has an office, a tiny, carefully furnished place that she rarely occupies, mostly using it for mail and occasional client meetings. Otherwise, she can and does work anywhere - in the studio after a ballet class, in front of Target post raid, in a coffee shop or on the beach.

Steve hops up too, kisses Nat on the cheek (she grimaces in disgust at his affectionate gesture and pulls his hair in retaliation). After they set a meeting time, they part ways.

A few minutes later, Steve is welcomed into the loving embrace of the AC of his old, red inherited minivan. Since he’s already out, he busies himself with some errands, picking up Thai takeout, stopping at the library, checking his oil and putting gas in the minivan.

Steve still has no idea why his mom felt that she needed a minivan. Steve was definitively her one and only child, and it was pretty fucking apparent early on after the disaster that was Steve plus kiddie soccer that there would be limited opportunities for sports induced carpooling. In fact, the passenger capacity had only ever been stretched to dropping Steve and Nat off at the library or the mall before they got their driver’s licenses.

Steve and Nat had both been deeply uncool; arty, awkward kids the two of them, Nat fixated on a professional ballet career and Steve lost in his head more often than not, spending all his time writing and drawing.

Sarah Rogers _had_ very briefly talked Steve into attending ballet classes with Natasha, but it had been a…disaster, to put it mildly. Natasha still looks vaguely constipated and quickly changes the subject whenever the topic of Steve’s brief but eventful ballet...experience comes up.

Carpooling failure aside, the van acquits itself admirably now, mostly carting Steve’s grown ass around. In fact, it even fulfills its original purpose from time to time when Steve (very rarely) deigns to be a designated driver for intoxicated friends or raiding PoGo players. Despite making him look like a suburban dad, Steve likes the van. It was long paid off, and even though it’s old, it has been lovingly maintained by first Sarah and now Steve. It reminds him of his mom, and well, he doesn’t drive too much anyways, mostly short errands and camping trips in the summer.

Thai food and new library books in hand, Steve heads home, only to immediately feel suffocated by the already stagnant, warm air in his little house. He wanders through, opening windows, absently checking each of his plants and leaving his sweaty hoodie and jeans scattered on the floor as he goes. Maybe this will be the year he gives in and splurges on installing central air. He could probably afford it. He tells himself he deserves it, his house deserves it, and makes a mental note to research it.

Steve loves his little house. He could never actually afford a house in Seattle proper (thanks ever so much Amazon), but when he’d gone looking outside of the city, he’d gotten lucky. The house itself had been a wreck and the neighborhood not much better, with gunshots an all too common occurrence in the park right outside his front door. The small downtown area a few blocks away had been dilapidated, with businesses opening only to shutter their doors a few months later.

But, something about the house, the neighborhood had pulled him in, a feeling of _this could be home_. He’d spent several long months (with reluctant help from Natasha) scrubbing every inch of the place, refinishing floors, painting walls, installing cabinets and bathroom fixtures and tile. He’d had to hire contractors for the bigger jobs, but at the end of the day, it had all been worth it. He’s no KonMari disciple but his little home sparks joy in him every time he walks in the door from the smooth wood floors to the skylights he’d had put in when the roof had to be replaced. He had covered the floors with soft, colorful rugs and the walls with photos and his own sketches and art from conventions and craft fairs. Plants are scattered all around; foliage with big waxy colorful leaves, delicate feathery ferns, and funny looking plants with spiky, speckled leaves.

His living room is filled with bright light and warm colors and a cozy couch covered in blankets; the tiny bedroom dominated by a big bed and cool in blue and gray and white. His office/spare bedroom is functional but comfortable, stuffed with books and equipped with a sit to stand desk that he really should use in the standing position more frequently. He’d wedged a small but solid wooden table into his shoe box sized kitchen, splurged on a big bathtub in the master bath, and put a fire pit in the tiny backyard. It doesn’t go together smoothly, but he loves every inch of it.

In fact, there’s only one thing Steve hates about his house, and that’s that his mom had never seen it. Steve had taken all of his grief, all of his regrets and should haves and poured it into the house, after her death. That, and the generous life insurance policy she had left him. Sarah Rogers had always had his back, kept looking after him from beyond the grave.

She’d constantly admonished him to live his life, get out of his dead end job and forget about his shitty commute. Steve had smiled and nodded and ignored her, ignored her advice, categorically rejecting _follow your dreams_ as impractical and frankly ridiculous.

He’d only cut his hours at work when it became apparent that Sarah was unwell, too sick to keep taking care of herself. He’d fully planned to go back to work full time, at some point, when Sarah was better.

But, that point…never came. And after…

After, he’d channeled his lingering guilt, his overwhelming rage and constant litany of _it’s not fair_ and _why her_ and _why me_, and had turned it into his perfect home. And later, into a career change, unable to stomach going back to his job like nothing had ever happened.

Steve’s learned that grief and guilt have no linear progression, no clear endpoint. There’s just getting through each day the best you can, and then moving onto the next. And the next. And the next, until you come up for air and realize it’s been a month, six months, a year and now almost double that, and all the shitty feelings are all still there but they get smaller and duller, sharp edges rounded. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s...manageable.

Most days Steve can see he’s content with a little side of happiness, but there’s always a taste of bitterness on his tongue, ashes and regret that his mom will never know he took all of her advice in the end.

Well, not quite all of it.

Steve…hasn’t been ready for romance, hasn’t even really thought about it, lack of emotional bandwidth leaving him hesitant to connect with someone new, even casually. His social circle has consisted largely of Natasha…and well, Natasha, with occasional check-ins with other friends. When he can handle it, which does not happen frequently.

So, even after getting home, getting cooled off and comfortable in boxers and a t-shirt, he still feels a little thrown by his unexpected reaction to that guy at the raid earlier.

Curled up on his couch, pad see ew in hand, Steve…broods. There’s really no better word for it. Maybe it’s just…artistic appreciation. He’s an artist, and really, he thinks most people, artists or not, would appreciate those legs in those particular pants. Maybe it’s just been long enough for his libido to wake up again. And hey, while his past dating life feels foggy and distant, he feels pretty damn sure he’s always liked a brunette with nice legs in snug trousers.

Steve ruminates until the daylight is going, doing future Steve wrong by absently picking out and eating all the tofu in his noodles. As the night filters in through the skylight, he finally drags himself off the couch, pulls out his laptop, and goes to write for a while in the office.

His writing doesn’t make much (okay, almost nothing), but he’s published, which would have made his mom happy and proud, which is good enough for him. And anyways, he can fill in the gaps by working tech support from home a few times a week. He’s naturally frugal, and the balance so far has kept his taxes and bills covered.

All this is good, but lately, he’s been on the fucking struggle bus with his current work in progress. He’s fully aware that he’s gonna get slammed with revisions for a prior manuscript any day now, and would really, _really_ like to be done with this rough draft by then. But, all the good intentions in the world have failed thus far to instill a sense of urgency in him.

Steve usually feels like he’s overflowing with ideas, rolling around in his brain and running down to his fingertips. It can make him bad company when he’s in his head, make him overthink things. Even when he’s not full of ideas…well, he struggles through, lets very few days pass without generating some kind of written content.

But, this particular story is fighting him, coming out in inches, kicking and screaming. Bruce, an artist with a tragic past and hidden secrets has met Maria, the no-nonsense, straight forward private eye with an unabashed interest in the emotionally reserved Bruce.

It’s not going well. Of course, it shouldn’t be going well at this point; Bruce and Maria have barely met and Bruce is already resentful of the forced proximity dictated by the plot and taking it out (unfairly) on Maria. But, it’s not going well in Steve’s brain either. He’s not confident he can get them to a point where they like each other at all, let alone _like_ each other. Hell, he’s not feeling particularly fond of either of them himself at the moment and despite his commitment to wrestling his way with it for a few hours, he’s particularly hampered by his own brain tonight.

He’s about 30% of the way invested in just scrapping everything and starting over, has different characters and alternate plots already percolating. The remaining percentage of his brain is on board, keeps imagining long dark hair and solid legs in lieu of Maria’s close cropped style or Bruce’s graying curls.

After the umpteenth space out, he accepts that his brain is a real dumpster fire tonight, and that it’s no fucking wonder he doesn’t have the emotional energy to date or even fuck around, if this brief encounter is messing him up this badly. He tells himself that it’s also really warm in his house, even with the windows open.

Aggressively shutting down his word processing program and getting his phone out, he indulges in some creeping on BuckDaBAMF (it IS a really dumb trainer name, but he can’t argue when his is 2old4this).

Sure enough, the man in question is definitely on Discord, but there’s nothing interesting to see. His nickname is the same as his trainer name, and despite extensive searching, he can’t see that BuckDaBAMF has ever posted in any of the social channels or anything beyond standard chatter to coordinate attendance at raids. In a truly sad move, he checks the Pokémon Go Facebook page for their city to see if he’s joined that as well, scanning through the members list, but no dice.

Slamming his laptop shut, he spends the rest of the night with an epic bowl of ice cream and powering through old X-Files episodes on Hulu. As an awkward teen, Mulder and Scully were his first inkling that he might swing both ways, before he even knew bisexuality was a thing. As an adult, he’s amazed that his horny teen self was able to overlook a lot of the frankly terrifying content (including the pantsuits) in favor of the unresolved sexual tension. Tonight, a few of the scarier episodes leave him ripping open the shower curtains and triple-checking his doors before he finally takes himself to bed.

Sleep is long coming and then fitful when it finally arrives. In the morning, he’s grumpily aroused and out of sorts with vague impressions of soft dark hair and the echoed sensation of his fingers sliding into tight gray jeans. He showers, jerking off in a desultory manner, irrationally irritated by his body’s response to a fleeting encounter.

Mentally setting it aside, he goes through the rest of his morning routine, finishing his shower, attempting to style his hair, and taking his meds. At the kitchen table, he reads for a while in his underwear, pausing from time to time to shove oatmeal in his face or gulp at his coffee. The forecast is for sun again, so he pulls on loose cargo shorts and one of his favorite t-shirts, a dusky blue t-shirt soft with washing, screen printed with an adorable Eevee.

Despite his piss poor sleep, he’s already feeling restless and guilty over his lack of productivity last night. He decides impulsively to work from Boom Coffee until he and Natasha are due to meet. Plan made, he’s out the door in a flash after packing up his work bag, swiping his hoodie off the floor, and shoving his feet into sneakers. He takes an additional minute to look over the plants (all looking fresh and green, no water required).

Boom Coffee is within walking distance, and Steve opens the PoGo app on his way, swiping Pokémon stops to collect items and catching Pokémon to complete a research task. He creeps on the Discord, and makes a brief detour to catch a Kyogre raid, silently dropping into the lobby and utterly failing to catch the whale at the end of it all. (He does check the lobby for BuckDaBAMF and does an additional lap around the park, but he doesn’t see him, digitally or in person.)

Post raid, he’s not quite ready to get to work; the sky is clear and the air is still crisp and cool and so he extends his walk to burn off some energy, tucking his phone back into his pocket because he sure as shit isn’t coordinated enough to catch Pokémon and walk at the same time. He feels the slight burn in his legs, air moving in and out of his lungs despite the slight chill, passively navigates the uneven and cracked sidewalks, stepping up and over curbs and weaving around the tree roots pushing their way up between the concrete. It feels good to move his body, let his mind drift.

By the time he arrives at Boom Coffee, he’s not quite sure where he’s been, but his brain feels softened up, the edges burned away.

Steve orders coffee, sets up his laptop, and surprisingly, manages to get right to work once he finds the right playlist. He comes up for air mid morning, orders a second coffee, and then jumps right back in. His fingers are flying over the keyboard and he’s utterly focused when his table shakes, sending him flying nearly a foot up in the air and shrieking in a completely restrained fashion.

When he comes back to himself, Nat is standing across from him, the table earthquake the result of her giant bag being dumped unceremoniously into an extra seat.

“Sorry Steve, I DID say hi.” She sounds utterly unrepentant, and there’s a smirk on her lips. Shaking his head, Steve pulls off his headphones,

“Whatever, hi, thanks for the unexpected cardiac arrest. Buy me a scone, okay?”

“Come on, your heart is fine now, you can’t keep saying shit like that. Have you even had lunch?”

“_No_ that’s why I need a scone. Can you get me a refill too?”

Rolling her eyes eloquently, Nat goes and orders, returns looking mildly irritated.

“$6 for a vanilla latte, we’re not even in Seattle!” Steve tries to restrain himself for a minute, but the words physically burst from him and he’s soon annoying Nat further by rambling about changing labor costs in response to the new minimum wage law, the price of organic milk, and the Madagascar vanilla shortage and the subsequent impact on restaurant pricing.

He’s sure she would be more engaged if he didn’t rant in a similar fashion just about any time they eat out.

He finally winds down when he notices her digging through her bag, lamely concluding “You know, if it was in Seattle, it’d be like, a fourth of the size with no outlets.”

She nods in agreement at his extremely valid point and Steve clicks around on his laptop for a while, saving his work while Nat continues to pull random charger cables, tampons, and countless tubes of blood-red lipstick out of her bag. He doesn’t know why she’s struggling so much; the inside of Nat’s bag is the undeclared 8th Wonder of the World, always organized and free of the coins, receipts, and other detritus that seem to build up in every other normal person’s pockets and bags.

Natasha finally locates the object of her quest (sunglasses case) just as the barista dispassionately hollers her name, indicating their drinks are ready. Steve gets off his ass, helps her ferry over cups of coffee, water, plates full of food. Nat takes the opportunity to needle him about his cargo shorts (”What the fuck are those Steve, I can barely look at you.”).

She herself looks great, uncharacteristically dressed in severely cut black pants and a perfectly tailored grey blouse. Her shoes and eyeliner are knife sharp and shining while her hair is as wild as ever, curling around her face and down her back in controlled chaos.

“Seeing a client today?” Steve asks.

Natasha plucks at a blazer now laid neatly across her bag. “Yeah, gotta play grown up in a couple hours, can’t stay long.”

That settled, they both fall on the food, dividing up the demanded scone as well as sandwiches and fruit. After a brief, silent struggle over the last strawberry, they clear the plates and get down to trading.

Trading results in a stat reroll for each Pokémon, more candy to power up said Pokémon, and occasionally, the trade goes lucky. Lucky Pokémon power up more quickly, and nearly always have great stats. It’s a mindless, by rote activity. Steve and Natasha both save Pokémon they want to invest in, then they get together and trade, trade, trade, cleaning out their inventories.

Steve’s been looking for a shiny, _golden_ Magikarp for a long time, and failing that, he’ll take a lucky one. Natasha has more than a few she’s saved for him, but none of the re-rolls are particularly good, and nothing goes lucky.

As they finish up, Natasha pulls out Clint’s phone, checks to see if there’s anything else she can offload to Steve.

“Nat, what if Clint...I don’t know, ever wants to use his own phone?”

Nat shrugs and chooses not to engage in that line of conversation. Instead, she says“I asked around a little.”

“Asked around about _what_, Nat?” Though Steve has a good idea what she’s gonna bring up, because Nat is nothing if not as stubborn as he is.

“About that guy, BuckDaBAMF.”

“Oh God, Nat, what is wrong with you? And when, it’s been like, less than 24 hours. _Did you ask him directly_?”

She shrugs, trades him a Machop for a Ralts, “Do you want to know or not?”

He rolls his eyes, gestures at her _Of course, spill despite my purported lack of care_.

“His real life name is James, he IS new to the area, moved here from DC about a month ago, popped up in our little group a couple weeks ago, probably after he got settled. He’s quiet, hasn’t said much to anyone. Oh, and he has a cat.”

Steve’s kind of amazed with what Nat has gathered in such a short time. And also kind of jealous, because he would fucking love to have a cat. He also wants to know more important things about James; what he likes, if he’s into dudes, if he’s even single. Does he always wear such tight pants?

He asks none of these extremely pertinent questions. Instead, he asks,

“What kinda cat?”

“Fuck, I don’t know, the kind with whiskers and fur?”

“Nat, there are hairless cats.” Steve knows his tone of voice is sanctimonious, but he doesn’t make much of an effort to correct it.

Nat sends him a Pidgey off Clint’s account, he sends back another Ralts and of fucking course, it goes lucky. Instant karma. He renames it Clint and favorites it, sends a screenshot to both Clint and their buddy Sam, both of whom have an unwholesome interest in birds. Steve’s been real bad about keeping up with his friends, but they text him, and he does his best to text back.

Nat doesn’t mention James again, and they part ways once the dredges of Clint’s oft-neglected PoGo account have been thoroughly excavated. Nat noisily smacks her lips to his cheek, leaving behind a smear of red lipstick before she pops her sunglasses on and breezes out the door.

Walking home to put in some hours at his second job, Steve mulls over the info Nat shared with him. He eventually decides he’s not going to do anything with it. He’ll…just…keep an eye out for James, maybe say hi if they end up at the same raid again.

Back at home, Steve’s earlier focus has completely eroded away and his brain and body are possessed with restlessness, making productivity near impossible. He struggles through the afternoon and into the evening anyway, doing too little actual work and taking too many breaks to do random and unnecessary cleaning tasks.

When two glasses in a row have fallen victim to an overly vigorous scrubbing technique, Steve realizes it might be time to take a break and try to chill out a little and he shoves his left-over Thai into the microwave.

Without a task to occupy him, he fidgets, balancing on one leg while staring into the microwave. He’s probably gonna fry his brain, but he pretends his latent (imaginary) mutant powers are coaxing his food into heating faster.

When the timer dings, he’s too impatient to grab a dishcloth and he nearly burns his hands while performing a brief, frantic hot potato maneuver before he can swaddle the bowl.

Food secured, further attempts to chill are futile. Hulu can’t hold his interest, and he puts his book aside after re-reading the same page four times. Even his dinner can’t occupy him; past Steve is a total dick for eating all the good veggies and tofu last night, and the remaining noodles are thick and gummy in his mouth.

He dumps the noodles in the compost and ends up eating three hard-boiled eggs and half a package of cookies while standing over the kitchen sink. He polished it earlier today, and he carefully picks the eggshells and crumbs and remaining shards of broken glass off the gleaming surface.

He wants to do more, keep moving, maybe have another snack, but it’s late and he tells himself _the house is clean, you can’t stay up all night cleaning_ and he forces himself to go to bed.

Steve dreams of his mom that night.

He’s standing in her dilapidated old apartment, mold crawling across the walls and obscuring the faded yellow floral wallpaper. The room is filled with stained and well worn medical equipment scattered across the cracked linoleum. The bathroom is filthy with old blood and used bandages and partially submerged in rusted water. It’s clearly been months, years since it was inhabited and his mom isn’t there (she never is), but the dream is always the same, horror and nausea twisting his gut as he realizes she had hidden here until she passed away, faking her own death to protect Steve from the progression of her illness.

Steve wakes up, panting, has to fumble for his asthma inhaler. Throwing off his covers, he turns on his stomach, places his palms flat on the cool part of the sheets. He focuses on his breathing, inhale through his nose, exhale through his mouth until his heart rate begins to slow back down and the sweat dries on his skin.

He’s been dreaming of his mom since before her death. At this point, even the nightmares are well worn and familiar around the edges, though this particular one is still a guaranteed recipe of _guilt-regret-panic_. Steve thought he’d been managing well but apparently this is his lizard brain’s way of throwing a tantrum, saying _hey bud you still aren’t okay_.

Like he needs the reminder. Sometimes he dreams that Sarah is sick (he hasn’t dreamed her healthy since she was diagnosed) but still alive and _herself_. Those too have their own particular flavor of frantic apprehension and fear, but he’s started to treasure them as his real memories have faded. He can’t imagine that’s a well adjusted response, but he’ll take his wins where he can get them.

Steve tries to go back to sleep, tosses and turns for a bit. At 2AM, he gets up, energy sizzling off his skin; desperate to be busy, unwilling to fight his impulses any longer.

He starts with scrubbing out the bathtub. When light starts to creep in through the skylights, Steve is still up, deeply entrenched in re-organizing his books by genre. The house smells of artificial pine and lemon, and his fingertips are shriveled from bleach. But, he feels emptied out and hollow and like he can maybe sleep.

He’d changed his sheets earlier, and after a brief shower, he crawls naked between them, distantly enjoying the feel of soft, clean linen on his bare skin before he’s tumbling straight into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep.

After that night, Steve, tries to compartmentalize his weird fixation on James. He’s had long stints of obsessive cleaning and nightmares, and he has no desire to go back to that on the regular.

He does allow himself to look for James on Discord, and tries to engineer his attendance at a few raids that James RSVP’d to without success. He’s had more than a few gentle, twisting dreams that leave him half hard in the morning, but he deliberately does not scour his brain for concrete details. To his relief, it seems okay, doesn’t set him off again, equilibrium gradually restored.

That’s as far as things go, because he gets asked to work extra hours at his second job, and he gets that manuscript he’s been expecting back, torn to shreds and with an alarmingly short deadline.

So, he’s actually gotta focus rather than fucking around with Pokémon, and he drops off Discord for a couple of weeks as a result. He hasn’t totally gone off the grid, but he figures out that his terse and intermittent responses haven’t been satisfying Natasha when she shows up at his apartment. Irrespective of the constant litany of complaints falling from his lips, she drags him out for the day.

“Steve, you need a break, you need sunshine, and I need companionship, grumpy as your ass is.” Before Steve is quite sure what has happened, he’s riding shotgun in Natasha’s immaculate car. An unreasonably large iced coffee goes a long way towards brightening his mood, and as they arrive at the park that Nat selected without his input, he reluctantly admits he needed to get outside for a bit.

This particular park is one of his favorites - a long, sloping trail wrapping around a lake, with little outcroppings of picnic tables and play equipment scattered about. They fall into a familiar pattern, Steve stopping frequently to catch Pokémon and then hustling to catch up to Nat, unwilling to risk catching and walking simultaneously.

The proximity to the lake results in increased Magikarp, and as usual, Steve is still cruising for a shiny gold specimen. It also happens to be a Cyndaquil nest, which Natasha hasn’t yet evolved fully so they are both happy and engaged.

They gossip as they go, Natasha filling him in on the past few weeks. She and Clint are on one of their many breaks (though she still has his phone, and in fact is catching Pokémon for him at this very minute). Sharon is finishing nursing school, and apparently, if Steve had stayed at his old job, Peggy would be his boss as of April. Sam is thinking about moving back to Washington.

“Hah,” Steve says, “He’s always “thinking” about moving back here, he’s not ever gonna come back.” (He wishes Sam would move back, he misses him, though he won’t admit it.)

In Pokémon Go news, the local group is apparently trying to organize an event for the upcoming Mareep Community Day, but it’s like corralling especially unruly felines. There’s a distinct lack of excitement over the electric sheep, and no one can agree on a location, let alone anything else of substance. And, it’s supposed to rain that day, with projected thunder and lightning.

Steve smirks “It’s really _shocking_ that everyone is so disorganized.” Natasha groans and pushes him lightly, sending him stumbling into a bush with a grunt and keeps walking.

After a brief struggle with some over-enthusiastic branches, he pops back out, fully intending to chase after Nat, but nearly runs full on into a power-walking woman with a stroller.

She’s well-groomed, blond and tan, with diamonds shining on her fingers and ear lobes. The stroller she’s pushing is enormous and practically armored, and her expensive gym clothes hide none of her carefully toned figure.

She’s clearly not amused by his shenanigans and favors him with a solid glare. Steve attempts to paint an appropriately apologetic expression on his face, but inside he’s grinning as he imagines that she is is the final evolution of one of the sorority girls he went to college with, and indulges in a power walk of his own to catch up with Natasha, whose quickly retreating shoulders are shaking suspiciously.

As they get themselves sorted, Steve updates Natasha on his own exploits, including the status of his edits (dire, but evolving in the right direction), rough draft (still rough), and his mental state (evolving, direction unclear).

After they’ve made a few laps of the lake, Natasha cajoles him into doing a few raids. “Steve, you still haven’t gotten a shiny Kyogre, and you’ve only got a couple days left, come on.”

He can’t say no, and well, he’s already out and about. Before he knows it, they’ve done three raids, and they are walking over for a fourth outside a derelict theater that downtown remodeling efforts haven’t touched yet.

He’s been letting Natasha coordinate through Discord - the woman has an encyclopedic knowledge of the downtown, and he’s impatient with the app at the best of times. So, he’s surprised to see James waiting in front of the theater, dark head bent over his phone. Steve drinks in the details of his appearance before he’s noticed.

The skin tight jeans from before are nowhere in evidence, having been traded for a pair of light, tapered jeans that look like they came straight out of Sarah Roger’s closet. Cuffed at the ankle, he can see the same black boots from before, leather worn and soft looking. An old looking white t-shirt is sloppily tucked into the belted, high waisted jeans, and an elaborate tattoo covers his left arm - gray and black and red stars swirling down to his wrist, bright against a soft night sky. His brown hair has been contained in a messy knot at the nape of his neck, strands escaping and falling into his eyes.

James looks up as Steve and Natasha approach, fingers pausing on the phone screen, and this is the first time Steve has actually seen his face, full on, and it’s a fucking disaster. James’ general silhouette has been enough to turn Steve inside out for a few weeks between the dreams (and the nightmare, ugh) and general level of distraction, but his face is next level stupid attractive.

Okay, objectively, he realizes the guy isn’t perfect looking; there are crows feet at the corners of his eyes, and little lines between dark, straight brows. James looks tired, with dark purple smudges under his eyes, and dark stubble over his cheeks.

But, he’s also got big gray eyes and curved lips that could hide anything, secrets or laughter or sorrow, and Steve’s got an inexplicable urge to smooth out the lines between his eyebrows and search for the secrets hidden behind those lips.

He does none of these things, of course, because it’s fucking inappropriate.

Instead, he waves, awkward, suddenly, horribly aware that he’s wearing his cargo shorts again with flip flops and a neon pink t shirt that Nat gave him emblazoned with a fighting uterus over his stomach, complete with fists for ovaries and _Fuck the Patriarchy!_ in cursive across his chest.

Well, he agrees wholeheartedly with the sentiment, but between that and the shorts, it’s not his ideal attire for officially meeting his...crush for the first time. He cringes a little to hear the juvenile word even in his own head.

But, whatever, he doesn’t ever really present himself any better. And if James is the kind of guy who is down with the patriarchy, he should find out now because it’ll be the end of his crush. And he and Nat would have to murder him. Or at least, he’d hide the body, because he’s got a lot more faith in her murdering capabilities than his. He’s just not physically gifted.

And his brain is totally off the rails at this point, but thank goodness he’s got Nat because she’s pushing past him, and he’s standing there frozen with his hand still in the air.

When he tunes back in, Natasha has introduced herself, introduced him, and they’ve learned that James actually goes by Bucky, he is in fact BuckDaBAMF (he betrays no embarrassment over his trainer name, which makes Steve like him more), and he has the good taste to be on Team Valor.

There are three Pokémon Go teams, and Valor is indisputably the best. Steve doesn’t think he could date someone on Mystic on principle alone (so arrogant), and everyone knows that Instinct players have huge chips on their shoulders to make up for their lack of numbers. (Steve really should have been an Instinct player, but Natasha had threatened him with unspeakable things if he chose wrong and he can be a team player when circumstances dictate it.)

“Hey man, I like your shirt” and Steve realizes that James (Bucky) is talking directly to him, and smiling and damn, that is something else, all straight white teeth and crinkled eyes.

“Oh! Uh, thanks, a lot of people are weirded out by the fighting uterus?”

“It’s bad ass, I kinda want one. Wanna exchange friend codes?”

And then, before he knows it, he’s exchanging codes with Bucky and they’re still talking and they find out that Bucky has somehow gotten two shiny Kyogres, but is still raiding for experience because he’s hasn’t maxed out at level 40 yet.

“Uh, I’ll trade it to you? If you want? We can be friends for a while first, reduce the stardust?” Bucky looks hesitant as he offers. Steve’s pretty fucking astonished that this guy is offering him a shiny legendary like it’s no big deal but like hell he’s going to say no, because, hello, he really needs that purple whale, and this has the added benefit of guaranteeing some kind of interaction in the future if Bucky doesn’t ghost him. Or if Steve’s brain can handle it.

Because yeah, Steve’s been fighting it or ignoring it by turns, but this guy is just too cute, and seems friendly and sweet to boot. And Nat’s right, they do have PoGo in common, and Bucky doesn’t seem turned off so far by Steve’s questionable style choices or awkward demeanor. At the very least, he thinks they could be friends, and Steve’s surprised to realize he wants that, badly.

Later that night, he tries very hard not to think about the fact that when he saw Bucky’s face today, he had the same feeling he had when he saw his house for the first time - a warm, full feeling in his belly and _this could be home_.


	2. Can’t Raichu Off; You Make Me Bayleef in More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky do some Poké-dating and generally have a good time together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning:** Passing mention of cancer (treatment and death caused by), discussion of some of the physical/mental effects of a stroke, discussion of a verbally abusive prior relationship. It’s not as heavy as it sounds.
> 
> More beautiful art from [remiarty](https://twitter.com/remiarty/status/1183437872952758272?s=20) in this chapter!
> 
> **Posting Schedule:** Ack, I forgot about this!! two chapters today (now), and then one a day until 10/16, where there will be one chapter + epilogue.  
  
[Pokédex](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20781254/chapters/49384613)

Despite his initial ambivalence about Bucky, Steve ends up committing absolutely to their Pokémon Go friendship, and by extension, their potential real-life friendship. He’s never been one to let an opportunity pass him by.

And, Steve is now able recognize that Bucky is an opportunity for him, maybe a really good one. Spring had been rough on him with too many anniversaries; Sarah’s birthday, the date they found out her cancer was terminal, Mother’s Day. Once they’re behind him, Steve finds he’s sleeping better, his mind is clearer, and his emotional range actually begins to exceed that of an avocado.

He’s also sleeping easier after he works out temperature control at home. The warmer than usual weather had not abated, and Steve had nixed central air after researching the environmental impact. Instead, he spent several days rigging up an overly complex network of fans that supposedly move the hot air out and pull cool air in. It’s surprisingly effective, and he gets his edits done in a blaze of cool air and productivity.

So, it might just be better sleep and less stress, but Steve starts spending more time outside, and subsequently playing more Pokémon than ever. As a result, he starts seeing Bucky everywhere, who seems to be hitting up the same raids as him pretty much all the time. This has a pleasant Pavlovian effect of him wanting even more outside time and game time. His work is suffering, a little, but a regular check up at the doctor confirms his Vitamin D levels are approaching normal for the first time in years.

And so far, Steve and Bucky’s in-game friendship is progressing nicely. “Friendship” in Pokémon Go consists of regular, forced interactions; sending gifts, trading, raiding together. Each tier of friendship results in bonuses; more balls to catch Pokémon, less stardust to trade said Pokémon back and forth, and most compelling, there is an enormous experience bonus to becoming “best” friends in-game.

Steve doesn’t give a shit about experience (he maxed out over a year ago), but to his mind, he has the 90 days it takes to reach best friend status to translate their in-game friendship into something real and off screen. And of course, he’s looking forward to finally having a shiny Kyogre. He’s careful to keep them on track, making sure to at least send a gift to Bucky each day and they always update each other when they see each other. “Only 60 more days!” “35 days to go!”

The rest of their chatter is similarly casual. They discuss whatever raid they’re in, and Bucky is always down to bitch about Team Mystic, who is tragically overrepresented in their neighborhood. The weather is also a regular if dry topic - like most Seattle transplants, Bucky showed up in the short window of time where it’s sunshiny and lovely. He simply doesn’t, can’t believe that constant cloud cover and continuous rain is the actual norm.

Steve is looking forward to giving Bucky a bad time when the inevitable season change does take place, and is pretty happy whenever their conversation dips into more personal territory and they can stop talking about the damn weather.

Steve stores up every bit and piece he learns about Bucky, like his excitement when Kyogre cycles out and Groudon cycles in as a raid boss. Bucky hadn’t been playing with other people when the big ground lizard came around the first time, and he missed out. (Steve has the impression that Bucky’s ex didn’t approve of PoGo, but Bucky is keeping those cards close to his chest, and Steve’s not about to pry.) It does confirm that Bucky is in fact into guys when he drops a male pronoun, so Steve takes the whole thing as a win.

Bucky’s favorite Pokémon is Bulbasaur (Steve is fond of Eevee himself), and he’s totally freaked out by Incineroar. Steve’s kind of hurt by that - he thinks Incineroar is weird and funny, but Bucky has strong opinions about Pokémon, particularly ones that start out as cute kittens and become weird humanoid cat-men who shoot fire from their groins.

Bucky has _opinions_ about cats in general - he’s the proud owner of a fat tuxedo named Herman, and to hear Bucky tell it, Herman is both a literal angel on earth and a complete asshole. Steve is amused beyond words when Bucky rolls up the right leg of his pants to show off a sizeable tattoo portrait of the notorious Herman on his calf.

Bucky also seems to only have two pairs of pants (and Steve doesn’t think too closely about his propensity to catalogue Bucky’s wardrobe) and no regular schedule, showing up at raids without a discernible pattern.

Both mysteries are solved when Bucky arrives at a raid in light blue scrubs and a pair of sneakers, hair in a neat bun and pushed out of his eyes with a headband. Gesturing at his get up, Steve promptly puts his foot in his mouth, 

“…Is this why you only have two pairs of pants?”

“What?!” Bucky squawks, shocked. Then he smirks, an expression that is really _not at all_ cute. “You checking out my pants?”

Suddenly over his head, Steve attempts to change the topic, clumsily.

“No, I just…you a nurse?”

“Ha, no. Scrubs always got people thinking that. I’m a PT, physical therapist.”

“Ugh, physical terrorist, more like it.” Steve is well acquainted with physical therapy - from his scoliosis to his flat feet to his hospitalization after heart surgery, he’s been in and out of PT for most of his life. He realizes belatedly he probably shouldn’t immediately diss Bucky’s profession.

Bucky winks at him. “With me, it’s always Party Time.”

Steve is relieved and a little charmed, but is constitutionally unable to let it go. “Hey! I’ve been a victim of your profession, you can’t fool me. You’re just waiting to torture me.”

“Steve, I spend like, 90% of my work time goofing off with old folks, and I like it that way. I’m not ever going back to working in a regular clinic.” He casts an appraising look at Steve, gaze running from his unruly blond hair that flatly refused any styling attempts this morning, to his toes, exposed by his beat-up flip flops. Bucky passes judgement, tone prim. “Couldn’t pay me enough to work on that posture anyway.”

And then he’s playfully nudging Steve and grinning that dumb grin that deepens the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and makes Steve want to bite him, and Steve is flushing hotly.

“My posture is not that bad! I have scoliosis! And flat feet!” But Bucky is just shaking his head and laughing and then they finish the raid and part ways. A few days later, Bucky tentatively suggests that if Steve does have flat feet, he may want to wear more supportive shoes than flip flops.

Steve buys a pair of Crocs.

When Bucky sees them, he rolls his eyes so far back in his head, Steve is surprised when they come out again. Clearly they are _not_ what Bucky meant, but they _are_ pretty comfortable.

The Crocs become his favorite shoes and replace the flip flops entirely and after Steve wears them for two weeks nonstop, Bucky stops looking so irritated whenever he sees them.

Steve is surprised to realize how much fun he’s having with Bucky. Bucky laughs easily, at Steve and with him, and entertains Steve with stories about his landlord, from whom Bucky rents a basement mother-in-law unit. Bucky is close with Al, who apparently does his laundry for him, and also lots of cocaine.

Bucky is also some kind of ridiculous Pokémon intellectual. It’s way too easy to get him worked up about the greater Pokémon world beyond PoGo with a few leading questions and Steve has listened to more than one rant on the economic and ethical implications of employing humanoid Pokémon like Machamp or Mr. Mime.

Steve didn’t think it was possible to find Bucky more attractive, but the more they run into each other, the more he likes him, and sometimes it seems like Bucky might _like_ him too. Sometimes Bucky will rest his hand on Steve’s elbow, or his shoulder as they talk, a heated point of contact that _should not be sexy_.

It seems casual and easy for Bucky, but it _is_ borderline overwhelming to Steve. He can’t handle being hyper-aware of every nerve ending on his elbow for more than a few minutes before he gets kind of nauseous, and it makes him feel like a goddamn teenager.

But, also like a teen romance, Bucky seems to run hot and cold. For every day he makes Steve’s head spin, there’s another where Bucky seems like another man entirely, friendly and smiling, but deflecting personal inquiries. He’ll keep his space, angle his body subtly away from physical contact like he’d never initiated it the day prior. Steve would give up, move on, but even when he’s running cold Bucky still gives off a soft, yearning vibe that he finds compelling.

A few weeks before Steve and Bucky hit best friends, they’re back in front of the old theatre, waiting to see if they’ll get enough people out for a raid. Steve is rambling, telling a convoluted story involving Natasha, a Snorlax, and a creepy forest trail. He’s not making a lot of sense; Bucky is trying to put his hair up, and Steve is distracted by his ill-timed impulse to trace the edge of Bucky’s jaw, nudge his nose into the sweet spot behind his ear...

“Steve?”

Steve realizes he’s stopped talking entirely in favor of staring at Bucky’s ear. “Uh, yeah?”

“Did Natasha catch the Snorlax or…?” Steve has never had long hair, but it looks like Bucky’s hair tie is maybe too small or not stretchy enough. He no sooner thinks that then the band breaks, startling a frankly adorable yip out of Bucky and leaving his hair in his face.

Steve breaks off to help him find the broken band, and then, body barreling ahead without any input from his brain, _here, let me help you dumb ass, you suck at following biological imperatives_ he finds himself tying the band into Bucky’s hair after brushing it back from his face.

It leaves them both awkward, Steve’s hands frozen in Bucky’s hair, Bucky’s fluttering, restless, with nowhere to go. The air between them is heavy and Steve suddenly, abruptly can’t stand it, thinks his heart is going to explode and he pretends he’s got somewhere to be and vamooses, walking away very quickly after a muttered goodbye.

Then he realizes he _did_ have somewhere to be, but it’s in the opposite direction, back where he just left Bucky. So, he continues on in the wrong direction for a few more blocks, and then doubles back. To his everlasting relief, Bucky already left and doesn’t see him.

He doesn’t see Bucky for five days, unusual when they regularly run into each other every other day.

Steve’s concerned at first. Maybe he overstepped and made Bucky feel uncomfortable. Then, he starts to get worried. He thinks about messaging him on Discord (somehow, they have never exchanged numbers, letting chance and PoGo dictate their encounters), but ultimately decides not to. What is he going to say? “Sorry I mauled your hair and then ran away.” or “Sorry, I thought you touching my elbow was a sex thing when it was probably a friend thing.” And then, what if Bucky is just out of town or lost his phone and he comes back to ten messages from Steve about hair and elbows and how cute Bucky looks when he’s irritated about Steve’s footwear choices?

It’s too much and instead he indulges in deep cleaning his fridge and then stress eating over the sink, working his way through an entire sleeve of crackers, a hunk of cheddar cheese and a few handfuls of cookies.

Later, he tries, awkwardly, to talk it out with Natasha. It’s early in the day, but already hot as balls. They’re taking advantage of the brief window of time they can legitimately hang out at the outdoor pool at Natasha’s condo and not freeze or get rained on.

They’re day drinking, trying to be incognito with rum and pineapple juice mixed into water bottles, Nat keeping a paranoid eye out for rogue children or snoopy condo association members.

Steve’s supposedly working, sitting cross legged on one of the lounge chairs, laptop open. He hasn’t actually written anything in hours, and has been making minor edits and word changes. Maria and Bruce are still hating each other, and he’s hating them more and more. His irritation only grows when he starts getting sweaty.

Finally, he puts his laptop away and pulls off his shirt, leaving him in his swim trunks. They’re ancient, faded blue with vertical striping and he should have replaced them a size or two ago but he swims so rarely he hasn’t bothered. He used to hate to be shirtless, worried about his thin arms and bony chest, faded scar bisecting his sternum, but he likes to think he’s evolved past such earthly concerns. Plus, it’s nothing Nat hasn’t seen a hundred times. And, with his snacking habits, he’s not quite as bony as he has been.

Nat’s lounging next to him, stretched out, sunglasses on, wearing a ridiculous black swimsuit that is more straps than anything else. She’s had it for a couple of years, and Steve’s seen other people choke when she removes her shirt with it on.

As someone who has been privy to Natasha’s sunburns for most of his life, his only response is to promptly chuck a sunscreen bottle at her. All the straps really end up looking like hell when she gets sunburned in that, and the complaining and weird tan lines last all summer.

Also, although neither he nor Natasha ever talk about it, he was Natasha’s plus one for the great Cancerous Mole Removal of 2017, wherein Natasha played it cool through the entire removal. And she had been cool, right up until she had attempted a cavalier jump off the table post procedure and promptly vomited all over Steve. They had been able to pretend that hadn’t happened, right up until she had also fainted getting out of the car when he took her home.

As Steve only has a couple of inches on Nat’s perfectly average height of five feet, two inches, and has weighed about 20 pounds less since she stopped dancing professionally, it had been a real fucking challenge to get her safely inside.

And, fuck cancer. After his mom, he’s pretty fucking invested in his best friend not having any more fucking cancerous moles or sun burns or anything that will lead down that path.

“Nat, lemme put more sunscreen on you.”

“Fuck off Steve, I just put some on.”

“Come on, it’ll make me feel better, just on your back?”

Grudgingly, she sits up, lets him perch behind her. He slathers too much on, but ugh, whatever. After, he lets her put some on him. Steve doesn’t burn much, mostly freckles, but he’s not gonna say no to skin protection, especially after forcing it on Nat.

He relocates to sit at the end of the pool, swishing his feet through the cool water. The pool is still empty and he takes a big gulp of his drink, thinks about swimming a little, is still thinking about it when Natasha cannonballs herself into the water, splashing water all over him and quickly eradicating his urge to get in.

When Nat emerges, plopping down beside him, her wet shoulder touches his, and her hair immediately starts streaming water onto the cement, getting his ass wet. Automatically, he kicks at her ankle. “Ugh, gross, knock it off.”

She wrings her hair out on him, ducks his second kick, “It’s just water, it’s not gross.” and then they scrabble in an undignified fashion for several minutes until Steve ends up in the pool.

When he finally pulls himself out, he makes a show of wounded dignity, but secretly, he’s grinning inside. Nat’s always been conscious of her image, how she portrays herself. He doesn’t blame her - she did what she had to get through a shitty childhood, her dance training and short lived professional career. But, he likes her best like this, salty and silly and fucking with him.

They settle back down next to each other, and now it doesn’t matter that Nat’s damn hair is dripping everywhere _thank you_.

“So…got that Kyogre off James yet?” She lifts an eyebrow “Or…anything else off him?”

“Fuck, Nat, _no_, what is wrong with you?”

She slips back into the water, casually props an ankle on the side of the pool in a stretch.

“Lotta stuff. Is that no to the Kyogre, or just a big no to everything?”

He sighs, pulls his feet up out of the water and out of Nat’s reach, folds his legs. Trying to keep his voice neutral, he says, “Well, we’re waiting to be best friends, ya know. Less stardust?”

Natasha looks amused. “Wow, playing the long game.” She continues to look expectant and Steve caves, overcoming his normal urge to hoard this shit to himself like a dragon. He comes out with it.

“I really like him.” Nat whoops and shoves at his legs, he tries to shove back and then holds up a hand. “But, fuck, I don’t know. It’s the first time..since Mom.. that I’ve been able to, or even wanted to feel this way. And. It scares me? I don’t know if it’s Bucky, or just time, or if he’s just the first hot, nice guy to come along at the right time. 

“So, I’m into it, him. But, I’m not sure if he’s gonna meet me there or not.” He hunches his shoulders, embarrassed at how raw his voice sounds. Natasha pats him, awkward while he tells her everything, about last week and Bucky disappearing and all of his internal turmoil.

“First off, personal damage aside, Bucky is definitely into you, no one offers up a shiny legendary 2.2 seconds into meeting some random guy in ugly shorts.”

“My shorts are _not_ that ugly!”

She holds up a second finger, cutting off his protests. “Second, you are way overthinking all of this. You can’t guess at his motives, it’ll make you crazy. Just take it day by day, keep seeing him, date him or fuck him or whatever if it goes that way. And move on if you’re not getting something good from it.”

“And! Fucking talk to him, Steve. You’re upset about a situation that may not even exist with a guy you haven’t even _told_ that you’re interested in him!”

Steve...can’t disagree with anything she’s said, especially the part about not actually talking to Bucky about any of his feelings. Natasha seems to sense it’s time to let things percolate in Steve’s little brain, and redirects him with some gossip about Discord drama.

Later, he lets her cajole him into attempting some ballet in the pool _which he’s too fucking old for, he is 33 now Natasha_ but they have a fun time anyway.

He’s less than thrilled to receive some particularly unflattering photos of himself, looking like a drowned rat, mouth open, attempting a port de bras. The follow up, his legs sticking out of the water in a headstand, feet at odd angles, is just as bad. They had attempted some partnering, but fortunately there is no photographic evidence of Natasha hoisting him in an arabesque, and anyways, it had rapidly devolved into splashing and attempts to drown each other until some actual children had shown up at the pool.

That night, he feels motivated to work for the first time in a while, nervous energy abating after the pool antics and discussion with Natasha.

He pulls out his laptop, and after he strips Bruce out of the story entirely, starts a new document where Bruce is still the emotionally stunted artist, but now he has been hired by Tony, the brilliant scientist who needs scientific illustrations for his latest text, a process which necessitates them working closely together.

He’ll have to address the sociopolitical implications of a historical romance with a gay couple, but it’s already clicking more smoothly in his brain, and well, maybe someone will be into it. It’s a story he’d like to read.

After some more thought, he conjures up Katherine, a talented ballerina with ties to the Russian mob who approaches Maria (still a good hearted and uninhibited private eye) with inside information putting her safety at risk. Maria is eager to protect the beautiful and mysterious woman, until evidence starts to mount that she may be double crossing them…Will her heart overrule her head?

Steve trucks along happily for several hours. He’s able to re-use a lot of what he’s written, and plot points click into place with satisfying ease. It’s a night that reminds him how much he loves writing, loves the idea of two people coming together, getting to know each other.

He dreams that night, not about Sarah this time, but about Bucky. It’s not sexy for once, just the two of them, sitting side by side on a bench, legs swinging. Bucky’s arm is around him, and they’re laughing, and they’ve got a big, overgrown Eevee sitting at their feet like a dog. Steve wakes up with a warm, full feeling in his belly and lies in bed thinking for a while. It’s not that he thinks that his subconscious is sending him messages, exactly, but it kind of feels like it is. He concludes that his subconscious is not fully up on the events of the last week but is willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.

Bucky shows up the next day at a Groudon raid. He greets Steve easily, blissfully unaware of the emotional knots Steve has been tying himself into, no mention of his absence. They stand side by side, leaning against a wall and Steve quickly becomes aggravated as fuck; he’s had a ‘three excellent curve balls in a row’ as a research task for weeks and he’s barely been able to achieve one, let alone three in a row.

Groudon is typically an easy target, but Steve’s a pretty shitty thrower, and he gets frustrated with himself quickly, fucking up his streak for the umpteenth time. He’s always had a bit of a temper, and with his emotional range expanding all the time, it’s also coming back online pretty readily, and he’s been feeling a little stressed lately with the situation (or lack thereof) with Bucky...

And then, Steve feels the phone being gently pulled out of his hands, and like it’s nothing at all, Bucky tosses one curveball (_Excellent!_) then another, and then a third, incredibly precise, easy as breathing. Bucky’s pressing his phone back into his hands before he knows it and he sees the orange completed research notification for a second before he mindlessly stuffs the phone back into his pocket. “Uh, thanks.” Bucky shrugs _No big deal_.

“Do you…always throw like that?” Bucky shrugs again, shows Steve his phone while he keeps catching…and yeah, _great, excellent, excellent, great_. Again, and again.

“I’ve always had pretty good aim? And I’ve practiced a lot?”

Steve’s poor heart is running in overdrive at this display of casual competence (and how had he never noticed, in all the hours they have spent playing this game together?) and it does not help at all that Bucky looks like a dream today, back in those goddamn tight grey jeans with a short-sleeved black and white polka-dotted shirt over it, hair loose over his shoulders and soft looking. Mouth running on a different rail than the rest of his internal train, he bursts out “_God_ you’re hot.”

It startles a laugh out of Bucky, who tucks his phone in his back pocket, shifts restlessly from foot to foot. Ruefully, he confesses, “My ex sure didn’t think so.” 

It’s the catalyst to be candid and acknowledge what they’ve been dancing around. “My last relationship…” And Bucky’s visibly hunting for words, gazing down at his empty hands, like they’re gonna offer something up to him. He gives up, shoves his hands into his pockets. “It was fucked up. I was fucked up.” 

He sighs, casting his gaze sideways at Steve through his hair. “Steve, I like you a lot. You’re funny, and real good looking and I’d like to…get to know you. But my head’s been all over the place, it’s gotta be a turn off.”

Like Bucky earlier, Steve’s got no words, but he’s desperate to get that terrible look of sadness and resignation off Bucky’s face. Tentative, he reaches out, curls his fingers around Bucky’s wrist where it emerges from his pocket, holding on loosely. It’s an awkward angle, but his fingertips are resting on Bucky’s bounding pulse and his own heartbeat is thundering in response. 

They stand, side by side, silent and linked, and gradually, Bucky’s heart rate returns to something Steve thinks might be regular, and his own follows suit. 

Time stretches away from them until Bucky slides his wrist, his hand through Steve’s grip, pausing to squeeze Steve’s hand and then extricate himself. 

Steve stirs. “Buck…Bucky. You don’t owe me, or anyone, an explanation, anything, got it?” He waits until Bucky nods, and then he goes on, “But, uh, I’d love to see you more...you think you could give me a Chansey?” Steve tries to keep his face as neutral as he can. Inside, he’s screaming, _use your fucking words indeed._

Bucky is staring at him, face flat and blank. “Steve.” 

“What?” 

“Did…you... just ask me out with a bad Pokémon pun?” 

Steve grins, nervous. “I do like you Bucky.” 

Bucky cracks up, shaking his head, eyes crinkling. Steve preens a little, happy he’s made Bucky laugh, but he’s gotta end this right. “Seriously, let’s just…get to know each other, no pressure, okay?” 

Bucky’s still got a smile hovering at the edges of his mouth. “Yeah, I’d like that.” 

And then, he tugs Steve’s phone out of his pocket, presumptuous and unexpected, but oh God does Steve like it as he watches Bucky tap his screen a few times. And then he’s holding his breath, because Bucky is slowly, so slowly sliding Steve’s phone back into his front pocket because fuck, Steve’s actually wearing his skinny jeans instead of his usual clown pants. 

Bucky gives him an appraising glance before he leans in close to him, and Steve might need his inhaler because he suddenly can’t breathe. Right into his ear, breath hot, Bucky whispers “You’re just my type.” 

And then, backing up with a little wave, Bucky turns on his heel and then he’s walking away. Steve’s breath comes out in a great gasp and he giggles hysterically, then groans when he realizes he’s half hard and it’s really goddamn undignified.

Fuck he’s dumb, but he wants on this roller coaster, wherever it’s going. He texts Natasha on his way home _You should see Bucky’s curveballs._

She texts back _real romantic Steve, please, tell me all about his balls. Actually please don’t do that_

Once Steve gets Bucky’s number, he doesn’t mess around with inviting Bucky to hang out. Mostly they still do Pokémon related activities together, but now they have trading dates and long walking dates where they catch Pokémon. They linger for hours after raids, talking and teasing each other. At the gym in front of the Heaven Sent Fried Chicken House, they become regular enough fixtures that the woman who owns it declares her own personal war against their loitering. She appears invariably with her broom, and sweeps the sidewalk so vigorously they’re forced to retreat before the resulting dust gives Steve an asthma attack. 

In an effort to contribute positively to their community and repair their images as gaming hooligans, they do try to eat there once, but she shoos them straight back out, worried they’ll stay even longer if they have somewhere to sit and they end up sharing bubble tea at the shop down the street, knees crowded together under the tiny table. 

Steve finds out that Bucky moved to Washington basically at random, and moved in with Al completely by chance when they met while grocery shopping. He’s vague about the details, but eventually gives Steve the big picture “I had some...health problems, and then me and my ex broke up, and I...just couldn’t stay in DC. Seattle was the first hospital with an opening I could transfer to, so...here I am. I guess I coulda gone back to the midwest, but my family…” he shrugs dismissively “We get on better when we aren’t in the same place.” 

Steve has a coastal dweller’s natural distrust of America’s heartland, and can’t disagree with Bucky there. However, Steve has carefully planned almost every aspect of his life (despite it going sideways at every turn), and the idea of just up and moving across the country and into a house with someone you met in the condiments aisle of the grocery store makes him twitchy. 

Seattle natives are ...just not as friendly as Bucky seems to be naturally, and it’s totally weird to him that Bucky is not only friendly with his landlord, but hangs out with them and shares meals. Despite Bucky running hot and cold with Steve himself, he’s only ever been effusive about the mysterious Al, and Steve is incredibly curious. 

So, he agrees readily when he picks up Bucky one day, and Bucky comes out and invites him to come in and have lunch with him and Al.

The house Bucky shares with Al is on the dilapidated side. It had once been painted a cheerful blue, with a bright red door, but both paint jobs are faded and peeling, and the gate is swinging loose on its hinges. The grass is overgrown with Seattle’s particular mixture of moss and dandelions with rampant brown patches throughout. The porch is moldering, sinking to one side, with a brown velvet recliner installed on the opposite side under the eaves. There’s a small lawn table bearing a Folgers coffee can next to it. 

Bucky frowns at it, as through seeing it for the first time, “Huh, I usually go out the back, I should really mow this down. And see if I can tighten up that gate.”

To Steve, he says “Al probably doesn’t realize how bad it looks.” 

That doesn’t explain much, but it’s not Steve’s house. 

The inside is in slightly better repair, though the walls are yellowed and there’s a faint odor of cigarette smoke. The wood floors are clear though, and the worn furniture is clean. Bucky leads him deeper into the house, explaining as he goes,

“This level is Al’s domain and the basement is mine and Herman’s. But, we eat together sometimes, and do housework together and stuff. Uh, I’ll show you downstairs another time, it’s kinda messy right now?”

He suddenly raises his voice, and Steve flinches from the sudden change in volume.

“Al!! Steve’s here!” 

Arriving in the small kitchen, Al is revealed to be an elderly lady with a shock of tightly curling iron grey hair, dressed in a lavender velour tracksuit with a floral fanny pack strapped securely around her waist.

She’s wielding a knife at a frankly alarming rate, reducing a pile of carrots to perfectly uniform sticks, and Steve is immediately impressed. Bucky gestures at Steve to sit down while he starts rummaging through the fridge.

“Al, come on, dish us up, will you? We gotta get going.” She turns to him abruptly, brandishing the knife “You rush me, you won’t get anything.” Her tone is playful despite the casual competence with which she wields the knife, and Bucky grins at her affectionately.

Al bustles around the kitchen, plating PB&J sandwiches and carrot sticks efficiently and dropping the plates unceremoniously on the table. Several carrot sticks bounce off and land in Steve’s lap and on the floor. He surreptitiously gathers them and tries to slide them back onto the plate. 

Al sits heavily in the chair across from Steve, and looks past him, eyes shielded by mirrored black glasses, and he suddenly realizes that she’s...blind?

Her voice is raspy, “So, Bucky, is this the boy?”

Bucky, who is pouring iced tea into glasses, flushes. “I..uh..Al, come on.” 

She laughs, mouth opening wide to show gleaming white teeth, too straight to be anything but dentures. “That’s not a no! Nice young man like this, you gotta show him a good time.”

Bucky carries on valiantly, “Jesus, no one asked for your input, and that’s why. Now, this is Steve. Steve, this is Althea, Al, my landlord.”

They shake hands, and exchange polite murmuring. While they eat, Al entertains Steve with increasingly ribald comments about Bucky’s appearance, sexual prowess, and earning potential. Steve is initially shocked, and then realizes that she’s actually trying to talk Bucky up, show him off, and it’s thoroughly endearing if completely unnecessary.

Bucky gets redder and redder throughout the meal but mostly doesn’t interfere in her dialogue, muttering indistinctly at his plate from time to time at some of her more pointed comments. The only time he restrains her in anyway is when she tries to light a cigarette.

“Hey, hey, no more smoking in the house, remember? Steve’s got asthma besides, you could kill him right here.”

“Wouldn’t be the first man to die in this house.” Al intones ominously, even as she puts the cigarette out. The leopard print ashtray is almost completely full; Bucky clearly has been liberal in his enforcement of the no smoking inside rule.

She segues into telling stories of her youth while Bucky cleans up the dishes. If she can be believed, she had a lot more fun than Steve ever did in his twenties, and it’s also amazing that she’s not in prison.

Dishes done, Bucky comes back to the table, and Al reaches out, unerringly locates his hand, pats it a few times.

“Thanks for cleaning up, Buck.” He smiles at her, eyes warm, and leans down to kiss her worn cheek. “Thanks for feeding us. We’re gonna head out now, okay?” She nods, and wanders out of the kitchen. When they leave, front gate swinging behind them, she’s upright and regal in the recliner, cigarette in one hand and a can of perspiring Bud Light in the other. Oversized headphones cover her ears.

Bucky rolls his eyes, “I fucking hate it when she does that, she only has peripheral vision in like, full daylight and with the headphones on, she can’t hear either.”

“Doesn’t seem too safe.” Steve offers. He had to park a few blocks away, so they set off.

Bucky shrugs, “She’s gonna do what she’s gonna do, and she’s been sitting on that porch long before I was here. She’s tough, you saw her with that knife. Honestly, I think she used to be an assassin. Plus, it’s her favorite place to listen to her stories.”

Intrigued despite himself, Steve asks “What kind of books does she listen to?”

“She won’t show me the CD case covers, but based on the library receipts she leaves lying around, I’d say it’s an equal mix of self-help books and vampire erotica.”

Steve snorts with laughter, and figures it’s as good a moment as any to tell Bucky about what he does for a living.

“Yeah, so speaking of, that’s actually what I do.”

Bucky’s staring at him like he grew another head, so he tries to clarify.

“Writing them! I write. Books.” 

“Oh God, I thought you were telling me you record self-help books. Or make vampire porn.” 

“Oh...well,” and Steve can feel his face getting hot. “I do. The second thing anyways.”

“WHAT.”

“No! I mean, I write romance novels. Not vampire ones. That’s…” and he waves his hand, mentally cursing himself. “A different genre...” he trails off.

Steve is dying inside. He always tries to be pretty clear he doesn’t write straight up porn, and here he is, jumping in and comparing his work unprompted to vampire erotica. Not that there's anything WRONG with undead sexy times, it’s just the complete opposite of how he markets himself, ever. 

But, Steve’s bumbling aside, Bucky thankfully isn’t as weird as he could be, as weird as people have been in the past. His next words are devastating nonetheless.

“Steve, no offense pal, but you don’t seem particularly romantic to me.”

Steve freezes, suddenly and painfully aware of just how much time he has spent imagining Bucky and himself in various romantic entanglements, starting with their hopefully inevitable first kiss under the stars and concluding with their intimate and thoughtfully planned wedding ceremony. And all the steps in between; coffee together in the mornings, making love in his big bed, an extra toothbrush in the bathroom. 

In retrospect, he has never really come down too hard on the friendship side of this thing. And now he’s second guessing every minute he’s spent with Bucky, wondering if Bucky maybe doesn’t want to be involved with someone who doesn’t seem romantic, second guessing this thing he’s got going with Steve. All this runs through his head in a second and then his natural defensiveness kicks in and he asserts himself. 

“Ugh, fuck off.”

And Bucky’s laughing at him, but it’s not at all mean. They’ve been walking side by side, and Bucky reaches out, hooks his arm around his neck and pulls him close and their gait falls in sync effortlessly. 

Neither of them are particularly big - he doesn’t think Bucky is any taller than five foot nine, maybe an inch taller if he’s being generous, and Steve, well, he accepted his lot in life when his growth spurt never came. But he fits neatly under Bucky’s arm and Bucky is nearly twice as broad and his side is a pleasant squish against Steve’s sharp angles.

“Okay, tell me about your writing? I didn’t mean to be a jerk, you just surprised me.” And Steve can’t win, because Bucky is so damn _nice_ and notices everything. He’s like a fucking ninja of body language and facial expressions and Steve can’t hide anything from him it seems.

Something to keep in mind since his brain seems to be insistent on planning their imaginary lives together.

Steve takes another minute to enjoy the feel of Bucky’s body against him before pulling away. Bucky lets him go, but runs his hand down Steve’s side before letting his fingers trail away. It’s tender and deliberate, and _oh_ Steve hasn’t been misreading this after all, he’s just working himself up over nothing as usual.

“I know I’m..pretty fucking awkward in person, and honestly, I haven’t dated in a long time. Not because I’m awkward.” He ducks his head “Well, it sure doesn’t help, but I’ve had shitty stuff going on, and it’s been...hard, but it’s a separate thing, near as I can tell. Writing romance and whatever might actually make it worse, I overthink everything.”

They’re at the van by now, and Steve feels like he’s been talking forever, but he can’t seem to stop himself, hands waving in the air as he tries to, somehow, come to a point that actually answers Bucky’s questions, spoken and unspoken. 

“But! I still love…_love_, and romance, and happy endings, all that shit. I don’t have to be Casanova incarnate to appreciate all of that or want to bring it into the world. My mom loved my dad so much, she carried it with her every day, even when he was gone.

“And you know,” Steve’s firmly on his soapbox now, but it’s too late for him to stop. “It’s not just about sex, or romance, even though that’s what I’m into...I see all the different ways people can love each other, and I think it’s beautiful. I don’t know why books have gotta be about the tragedy of man to be worthwhile. After all, for most of us, the best things we ever do, the best things we ever have are our relationships with each other, our friendships and our families and our partners.” 

He has to take a breath before he faints and his ears are ringing a little and now Bucky is looking at him with big shiny eyes, like maybe he hasn’t seen him properly before. But all he says is

“Wait, so you write… do you..write straight romance?”

“Hah, well, I’ve mostly sold straight, or at least straight appearing stuff. And I’m bi, I’ve had relationships with women before. I..uh, like them plenty.” 

And he points at Bucky, feeling a little defensive.

“And! Straight people definitely write gay romance! It’s sure as shit not an exclusive market, and I’m more than qualified. I have written stories with gay or bi characters, but...they haven’t really been picked up. Yet! I’m hopeful.” 

“Okay, okay,” Bucky is laughing and patting him consolingly on the shoulder, “I wasn’t questioning your qualifications, though I guess it’s fair for me to hear about them after Al tried to auction me off to you like a prize cow.”

“She sure has a positive opinion of your...attributes.” Steve grins at him, and winks, hoping he doesn’t look like a demented owl and he’s rewarded with Bucky blushing and looking down. 

“God, Al is full of shit. Like, 100% of all of that was total garbage, do us both a favor and forget it, okay?”

Steve keeps his face as neutral as he can “I can’t unhear it and now I’ll always wonder.” Bucky avoids further discussion by pulling at the handle of the van until Steve relents and unlocks it.

They spend a very satisfying afternoon raiding, and later, Steve is touched that Bucky introduced him to what is essentially his family out on the West coast.

Bucky and Steve continue their summer courtship at the speed of glacial ice. Natasha hangs out with them a time or two. After, she tells Steve she’s 80% sure that Bucky is super into him and absolutely certain they are both fucking morons. Steve can’t disagree with her latter assessment, so when Adventure Week rolls around (10x experience for every new Pokéstop spun), he tries to plan a more structured date for them. 

Steve’s been level 40 for what seems like forever, but Bucky’s not there yet, and he hasn’t explored much of the Seattle area, mostly working and either playing Pokémon with Steve or helping Al out around the house. 

So, after some discussion, Steve gets out a map, and they plan a route for a weekend that Bucky’s not working. Steve plots greater urban density early on, and a second, more rural route for later. It’s not the best way to get a ton of experience, but he privately feels like Bucky should see some of the forests and greenery that the Pacific Northwest is known for. It’s a little selfish. He wants Bucky to like it here, wants him to stay, has become pretty fucking aware that nothing is holding him here but his job and he wants to show off something that will make up for Seattle’s shitty mass transit and constant rain.

The day of, Steve stocks up on drinks and snacks, Bucky puts together an epic playlist and they head out to get Bucky to level 40. It’s pretty awesome. Steve pounds coffee and drives, and Bucky mans the music, passing snacks as needed. They pull over frequently, hopping out to walk and spin stops and then hitting the road again. Bucky has a surprisingly nice singing voice and an encyclopedic knowledge of Britney Spears’ discography.

“I’m a millennial, _Steve_, it’s really more shocking that you don’t properly appreciate Brit.”

Steve flips Bucky off _He has excellent taste in music, thanks_ and gets busy passing a painfully slow truck while Bucky waxes lyrical on Britney Spears’ guardianship, her money grubbing father, the relative merits of her Vegas show, and how he really identified with her 2007 meltdown and in fact had once shaved his own head in an unwarranted fit of rage. 

Bucky is not usually so animated and Steve is so here for it, even if the topic _is_ Britney Spears. The only similar amounts of excitement Steve can recall is when Bucky caught a shiny Groudon earlier in the month, or really any time he’s talking about Herman. 

Then, Loser comes on (overrepresentation of Britney aside, Buck has put together a truly excellent playlist) and they both get a little involved in singing along with Beck, mumbling through some of the lyrics and coming in strong on the chorus. They’ve got both of the windows rolled down, and the breeze is blowing through the car, cooling them down. 

Bucky’s extricated himself from his boots and socks (the man is firmly committed to his aesthetic, despite the hot weather), and he’s got an ankle propped on the dash. His bare feet match his hands, long, slender, and the lizard part of Steve’s brain likes the look of the dark hairs on his toes and his neatly furred forearms. 

Bucky had started the day with his hair in a neat braid, but it’s coming loose now, whipping around his face and getting under his knock-off wayfarers. He’s wearing his horrible mom jeans again, but Steve finds he minds them less, especially since they’re topped by a black band t-shirt repurposed into a tank. It gapes excessively at the neck and arms and offers pleasing glimpses of his sturdy chest. 

“Heart, huh?”

“Be nice, I was raised by a single mom. We listened to a lot of Heart.”

Bucky looks beautiful, happy and relaxed, singing his face off and looking out the window like a little kid. It’s a gorgeous day, blue sky and green pine and Rainier Mountain out and glorious on the horizon. 

Steve keeps sneaking sideways glances, and every so often, his gaze meets Bucky’s, and they grin at each other and Steve’s heart is so fucking full and the music is pulsing through him and he could drive forever with Bucky at his side like this. He really thinks he could fall in love with Bucky fucking Barnes, wants to reach out and grab his hand but instead he swats at his thigh, “Get your fucking feet off the dash, what if we get in an accident?” 

And Bucky humors him, though not without a long suffering sigh.

They hit a rock and get a flat tire less than an hour later. It takes both of them to get the spare on, takes forever for Steve to carefully drive them off the road and into a rest stop since there is no shop even close to nearby that can put a new tire on and they’re hours from home. Steve finally gets through on the roadside assistance line (thankfully he didn’t cancel his membership) and confirms that yes, it will be several more hours until anyone can come out and put a proper tire on. 

By then, it’s getting late, and they’re resigned to spending some quality time at the rest stop. It’s a smaller one, just a few parking spots, a vending machine, a bathroom and no strong murder vibes. They get out, stretch their legs. The light is fading rapidly but Steve spots a little trail, with a park sign.

“Hey, come on Bucky, let’s check out the trail.” Bucky looks unsure, but after Steve pulls up PoGo, points out a few stops they missed earlier, he’s game. Steve pauses for a second to root around in the back of the van, stuffing a flashlight, a blanket, water and granola bars into his backpack. Bucky grabs their jackets from up front, and then they’re on their way. 

They’re quiet as they walk - Steve wondering if Bucky’d like to go up to Mount Rainier some day, or if he’s seen any of the beaches yet; Bucky keeping his thoughts to himself. The trail lets out in a little grassy clearing, flanked on all sides by pines. Testing the grass and finding it dry, Steve tosses out the blanket, throws himself down. After a second, Bucky joins him, leaning back on his hands and crossing his ankles. 

Bucky’s been quiet since they pulled over, and Steve can feel the easy intimacy of earlier fading away. Desperate to keep Bucky from pulling back into himself he gestures up at the sky, lets his brain off its leash and starts chatting away.

“So, I know jack shit about astrology…but I know that we can see the stars better out here, with less light pollution. And, I think if you look closely, over there, you can see that those stars form the constellation known as the Tail of Pikachu…”

“You dumbass, do you mean astronomy? Cause, yeah, you definitely know jack shit…”

Steve cuts him off, “Hey, hey there city boy, have you even seen stars before?”

“Steve, aren’t you from Brooklyn originally? And you’ve lived in Seattle ever since…”

“Buck, shut up, look, up there, we got the “Cat’s Smile”, where those little ones go in a swoop? And over there, we got the Crisis of Brit, where they’re all kind of scattered, pretty fucking evocative of her brain….and I think you can see the Flopping Magikarp to the right…”

[ ](https://twitter.com/remiarty/status/1183437872952758272?s=20)

And Bucky’s giggling, and lying back and Steve keeps making up ridiculous constellations, until it’s pretty well dark and now the silence between them is comfortable, and they lie side by side, staring up at the stars. Steve braces himself, brushes his fingers lightly against Bucky’s, and his stomach turns over when Bucky takes Steve’s hand, fingers cold and calloused.

After a while, Bucky breaks the silence. “I wanna talk to you. I’ve just…been thinking about what I want to say, the best way to say it.” 

“Oh, just spit it out, you know I’m shit at talking, you can’t do worse than me.”

“Well, I’ve never made up an entire star system, so I guess there’s that.” And he wiggles closer to Steve, pressing into his side. Steve’s body is starting to tremble, it’s getting cold and his jacket is lightweight, but no way he’s going to move now, so he just wraps the blanket around the two of them best he can one handed and Bucky helps, bringing the other edge up and across.

“I told you I had a bad break up, and I had some health stuff, yeah?”

“Yeah, I remember, you didn’t say what.” 

“Check out my arms.” And then, Bucky pulls his hand free, and stretches both arms overhead, rotating them. His sleeves are pushed up, the left covered with a starry sky, not dissimilar to the one they’re lying under. The right is also tattooed, little paw prints scattered on his forearm. Steve thinks that they’re probably another ode to the notorious Herman. Steve has to squint, but with the direct comparison... “Buck, is your..left arm a little smaller than the right? Aren’t you left handed?” It’s subtle, but now Steve can’t unsee it. 

“It is, yeah, I am. So, I had a stroke, years ago.” And he rushes to cut off Steve who is starting to stammer, “Younger people can have them, it’s shitty, but it happens, and it did. It affected mostly my left arm. I can mostly do what I need to with it now, been pretty lucky there, actually, but my sensation is still fucked up. It feels...burny? And I don’t feel stuff as well with it.” He sighs, goes on.

“I had to change jobs, I can work in the hospital okay, but I did mostly hands on stuff before. Can’t do that anymore. And...I also had some personality issues, I guess, though I don’t remember that well. I’d say whatever came into my head, no filter at all, and I’d just cry, all the time, and have panic attacks at the drop of a hat.”

He pauses for a minute, tone dry, “I was a real joy to be around.” Steve puts his arm around Bucky, and Bucky lets him, scoots closer and tucks his head into Steve’s armpit. “I was living with Gary, my boyfriend, and...it was just not what he had signed up for.”

Steve startles. “What?! Your ex is named Gary? Like...Gary Oak?”

Bucky fluffs up like a rooster. “Oh my God, YES, is that what you’re going to focus on here?” Steve wants to punch himself but instead he pats Bucky’s shoulder, trying to be soothing. “Sorry, _fuck_, sorry.”

Bucky relents after a minute, “It’s fine, I know, it’s weird. And it was funny because he wasn’t into games or anything like that at all. Anyway. I don’t know. I don’t think any younger person gets into a relationship thinking, oh my boyfriend is gonna stroke out and now I have to help him feed himself and get dressed and take a shit. And all that while he lashes out and melts down every other day, turns into a disaster in public all the time. It’d be a lot, for anyone. I think…” and Bucky takes a deep breath

“I’d be okay with it, if he just had broken things off. But, he started riling me up, making fun of me, then chewing me out when I’d get pissed, say I was out of control. Think he was trying to goad me into breaking up with him, so he wouldn’t look bad, but I was too dumb to see it. I...should have, when I got better but he acted the same.” Bucky pushes a little closer and keeps talking into Steve’s armpit and now his voice is so quiet that Steve has to strain to hear it.

“I...I loved him. And I tried so _fucking hard_ and he kicked me to the curb, came home and my stuff was packed up.” He sniffles, wetly, and Steve tightens his arm around him and reaches across with his other hand to stroke Bucky’s hair, clumsy as he untangles the loosely braided mess, trying not to pull. 

“I mean, I’m...over it, over him, but I’m still pissed.” And Steve realizes that Bucky is crying, silently, shoulders shaking and he tightens his arm around him, keeps petting his hair.

“Ssshusshh, shussshh, Buck, hon, Bucky, I got you, you’re okay, you’re fine.” He doesn’t know where the endearment came from, but he keeps muttering nonsense while Bucky cries himself out. Finally, he’s soggy, pliant under Steve’s hands and then Steve’s phone starts blaring What Is Love and they both jump and Steve frantically pats himself and Bucky down, trying to find it.

Finally, he gets it out and answers after the chorus plays twice, and damn, he’s going to change that out as soon as he can. Roadside assistance confirms they’ll be there in a half hour, so he and 

Bucky get themselves untangled and on their feet. They’re stiff and cold and Steve’s armpit is soaked through, but the distance that’s plagued Bucky intermittently seems to be gone. He and Steve make their way back to the van, hand in hand. 

The technician squares away their tire promptly, but it’s still nearly midnight when they start the drive back. After an hour, they pull over at a truckstop with a 24 hour diner, and Steve eats a cinnamon roll the size of his head while Bucky pounds water in a desperate attempt to rehydrate after the tears. Armed with giant coffees, they hit the road again, and Steve feels like he has to acknowledge what Bucky shared with him. 

“Bucky, you know that your ex is an ass, right? He’s fucking stupid. I get what you say, about being young, and being a caregiver unexpectedly, hell, I’ve lived that, but you know, he should have just broken up with you.” 

He feels his hands tighten on the steering wheel, and he has to focus, keep the car at a safe speed, not let the rage that’s building up in him spill over.

“Yeah, it _looks_ bad to break up with someone who’s had a major medical catastrophe, but who fucking cares? It’s worse to abuse that person, and even if he didn’t touch you, he was emotionally abusive. It’s fucking shit, Buck. He didn’t deserve you, should have never treated you that way.” His voice is rising and he knows he sounds angry.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, eyes focused on his coffee cup, hair poking out of the hood pulled up over his head. He looks small, and Steve hates to see him that way and forces himself to calm down. 

“Buck, I’m sorry. I can’t do anything, but I’m sorry.” He takes a hand off the wheel and gropes blindly for Bucky’s hand, holding it tightly. “Thanks for telling me.”

“I feel better, I’ve wanted to tell you for a while.” He lets Steve hold his hand for a minute more and then, “Get your hand back on the wheel, jackass, you wanna cause an accident out here?”

Steve laughs in surprise, Bucky gets some music going (nothing too soothing or sad) and they make good time back to the Seattle area. Bucky hits level 40 when he spins a random stop on their way back to Bucky’s place. The sky is just starting to lighten, and Bucky, yawning, invites Steve in.

He’s tired, eyes scratchy and screaming for sleep, but he can’t resist the chance to see Bucky’s home (he’s only seen the kitchen upstairs) or maybe meet Herman. Steve parks the van, and they quietly sneak through to the back of the house, Bucky holding his keys carefully to keep them from jingling. Inside, Bucky and Steve are greeted with cranky little meows, Herman twining around Bucky’s ankles and making it clear just how much his absence has inconvenienced him. 

Bucky scoops him up with a long suffering expression and carries him around on one hip like a baby while he shuffles around the little apartment, turning on lights and attending to Herman’s food and water one handed. “He’s kind of attached? And doesn’t really act much like a cat. At all.” 

Steve is immediately enchanted. Herman is everything he hoped for, round as a dumpling with a serious face and long, unruly whiskers. When Herman finally deigns to allow Bucky to set him down, Steve is quick to offer his fingers and is delighted when Herman permits him to stroke his head and fuzzy sides. 

Bucky disappears into his bedroom, and Steve tries to look around while he pets Herman, not wanting to be too obvious. The mother-in-law unit is tiny, kitchen open to the living room, and minimally furnished. A laptop is perched on the coffee table in front of the faded, floral couch and the walls are white and clean. Books are piled around the base of the couch, folded scrubs neatly stacked on the cushions, and elastic bands and weights are piled messily under the coffee table. 

Bucky returns, clad in red sweatpants cut off at the knee and an oversized black and white striped t-shirt, feet bare and hair pulled up. Steve tries not to look at Bucky’s bare neck. In the kitchen, Bucky puts the kettle on, rummages in a cupboard and triumphantly pulls out a tupperware container. Opening it, he offers a large cookie to Steve. “Oatmeal chocolate chip. Al makes em.” 

Steve takes it. It’s fucking delicious, and even better with the tea Bucky pours him. They eat and drink in silence, standing close to each other, and Steve can’t take his eyes off Bucky. He knows he looks like shit, rumpled after the long hours in the car, hair standing on end, and eyes red, but Bucky’s looking back, doesn’t seem put off at all and Steve’s chest feels tight, each breath hard won. He wants to drop his eyes, look away but he’s afraid if he does, he’ll spin away, earth dropping away beneath his feet.

When he finishes the last swallow of his tea, Bucky pulls the cup out of his hands, backs him up against the door. His hands are hot on Steve’s hips, and Steve is acutely aware that the left is a little cooler than the right and that his breath is as erratic as Steve’s. 

Steve tilts his head back up against the door and gives into the impulse he’s had since he first saw Bucky, gently stroking under his eyes, fingers running over the hollows that are nearly always shadowed and purple, tracing a sharp cheekbone and over a soft earlobe.

Bucky closes his eyes, and Steve can see his Adam’s apple jump as he swallows and leans in, and Steve thinks this is it, their first kiss, both half dead, but instead he props his forehead against Steve’s, breath warm and smelling of tea. 

After a minute or two or maybe ten pass, Bucky pulls away and then Steve can feel his lips, chapped and warm against his cheek and he’s a little dizzy from _feeling_ so much. “I...gotta go, Bucky, okay?” And he’s choking on the words and Bucky’s answering chuckle is rough, low. “Yeah, okay, good night Steve. Be safe.” 

Steve reaches behind himself, fumbles the door open, and backs out, waits until he hears Bucky lock the door before he walks away. He’s emotionally exhausted and physically quivering from desire and too much caffeine, but he floats home and practically levitates into bed just as the sun is rising. 


	3. Em-Paras-sing Conduct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve behaves badly towards the people he loves, and gets called out on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning:** mentions of cancer in context of X-Files episode

After the Adventure Week road trip, Bucky and Steve’s relationship shifts. They’re still taking things mostly slow; close-lipped kisses to the cheek or forehead, lingering touches, simultaneously chaste and heated, but Steve is beginning to get a sense of inevitability. They’re sliding downhill, going somewhere good and he’s just gotta stay on the ride and see it through. 

They’re having dinner at Bucky’s one night. There’s no space for a kitchen table, so they’re tucked up on the couch, eating a spicy chicken something that Bucky produced from his crockpot and watching X-Files on his laptop. Bucky joined Steve on his re-watch of X-Files willingly enough, though their appreciation of the show could not be more different; Bucky preferring the monster of the week episodes, and Steve still living for Mulder and Scully’s interpersonal dynamics. Bucky also flatly thinks that Mulder is a dick and was faintly disbelieving (and then more than a little judgy) when Steve confessed his attraction to the man.

Steve had been happily absorbed in scooping up bits of brothy meat and vegetables with a hunk of bread. He’d dressed for comfort, in loose, worn jeans and a soft mauve striped shirt, bare feet tucked up under Bucky, who’s sprawled across the couch at an angle, ankles crossed on the coffee table and bowl balanced precariously on his belly. He’d dumped his own food over spinach, which looks gross, Steve’s learned that while Bucky isn’t picky, he is careful about his diet, cooking regularly with minimal salt and piles of veggies. 

He’s also got a regular exercise routine, and actively practices stress reduction. It’s all kinds of amazing to Steve. His idea of a gourmet meal is putting upscale mustard on a sandwich, and he feels like he lives his life more or less constantly on the verge of a self-induced stress vortex. 

Tonight though...the food Bucky made is delicious, his couch is comfortable, and Herman is emitting a gentle, wheezy purr from his station on the back of the couch behind Bucky’s head. Steve feels content and happy as he wriggles his toes further under Bucky, refocuses his attention on the laptop. 

Then, he recoils violently as he realizes it’s the episode with the tumor-eating EMT, which he had happily forgotten existed until that moment. His sudden movement causes a carefully balanced chunk of chicken to fall off his soggy bread utensil, bounce off his chest, and land back in the bowl with a splash. He curses, hunting frantically around for a napkin, and Herman shoots off the back of the couch, disappearing into Bucky’s bedroom. Bucky jumps up, comes back with a damp dishcloth while Steve pauses the show. 

“Hey, Buck, can we skip ahead? I hate this whole….part.” 

“Sure, give me a sec.” And to Steve’s mingled pleasure and embarrassment, Bucky crouches in front of him and starts blotting industriously at the slowly spreading stains, face focused. Steve can feel his face flushing, and after his shirt is damp but still stained, Bucky gives up, sitting back on his heels. 

“Sorry man, I think this is going to stain. You can leave it on, or I’ll toss it in with my clothes? Al can get stains out of anything.” 

“Uh, sure, if I can borrow a shirt?” 

“I’ll grab you something.” But Bucky doesn’t get up, stays in front of Steve, gaze intent as he wrestles out of his shirt. Steve knows his movements aren’t particularly coordinated and he can feel his flush moving further down his neck, his chest, and he wonders what Bucky thinks as the scars on his chest and asymmetrical ribs are revealed. 

As a rule, he’s no longer particularly self-conscious about his body – it matches his sharply cut facial features and no amount of working out or special diets have ever done much to transform him. But, the first moments undressed in front of someone you want to impress are always nerve wracking, and Steve finds himself swallowing hard and looking down at the crumpled shirt in his hands. 

He’s not left wondering long – when he looks back up, Bucky’s gaze is intense on his chest, pale grey eyes dilated and cheeks pink. Caught and unembarrassed about it, Bucky levers himself smoothly to his feet and leans in, dropping a kiss on Steve’s cheek and a second on his crooked collarbone, counterpart to his crooked nose. (De-escalation wasn’t really a word he was familiar with until later in life.) 

Steve turns his head, nuzzles Bucky’s hair. He’d left it down tonight, and it’s soft against Steve’s face and smells of bergamot from the tea he drinks and clean peppermint from his soap. 

“Gonna take my shirt or...?” 

Bucky’s voice is soft against Steve’s chest “Mmm yes, just a minute.” Leaning over Steve like he is can’t be comfortable, and on impulse, Steve pulls him down, legs across his lap, and Bucky lets him, allows Steve to arrange him, shirt forgotten for the minute. 

They stay like that, Steve drunk on the smell of Bucky and the feel of his soft shirt and warm skin against his own until Bucky finally un-entangles himself, squaring away Steve’s shirt and bringing him a red hoodie to pull on. 

They’re cleaning up the kitchen together, when Steve figures it’s as good a time as any to initiate the talk he’s been mulling over. His mom had been a nurse, and particularly fanatical about open, honest discussions about sexual health. As a teenager, it’d been absolutely mortifying. As an adult, it had become a habit for him to at least bring it up, early on, before everyone has their junk out and a potentially nice time becomes a traumatizing discussion of the tertiary effects of syphilis. So, even though he thinks that further intimacy with Bucky is probably (a long) ways off, he’s feeling confident enough in where they’re going to bring it up. 

Bucky’s scrubbing out the crockpot, and Steve is opening cupboards at random, trying to match clean dishes to those already in situ. 

“Hey, Bucky, so, this is maybe a little random, but I..uh..wanted to talk to you about sex.” Bucky had been humming tunelessly to the soapy crockpot, but at Steve’s unceremonious conversational bomb, he goes quiet, staring at Steve.

“Um...do you mean...about general mechanics? Or..who tops..or what?” Steve stares back, because that’s not at all what he meant, and then he remembers he’s the master of ceremonies in this latest insanity and starts talking again. 

“Oh! No, I don’t care about that, I like whatever. Buck, I’m not assuming we’re gonna sleep together, now or anytime soon, or even ever, but if things go that way, I think it’s…nice if we’re on the same page? So, uh...” and then he’s digging in his back pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper, which he offers to Bucky, pauses while Bucky carefully dries his hands and takes it. 

“I just got tested.” He indicates the paper “If we go further, I’d like you to get tested as well. And I thought…we could just talk? If there’s anything important?”

Bucky takes the paper without looking at it and sets it on the counter. He looks apprehensive and swallows hard. “Actually, yes. I…well, sex makes me really fucking nervous ever since the stroke. What we’ve done so far, that’s all good…it’s been really…good. But more aerobic stuff, anything where my heart rate gets too high, it just freaks me out. I don’t know if it will, always, but now, I kind of need it to be more…steady or something. I don’t really know.” 

He trails off for a minute, smoothing Steve’s paper on the counter. “I’ll get tested, no problem. I haven’t been with anyone since my ex. Steve, I know we’ve been going slow, and I like it. I’d like it if we could just…keep going this way?” 

“Hey, of course.” He touches Bucky’s hand. “I didn’t mean to pressure you, I like where we’re at. I just think it’s better to talk about this stuff as we go. And...uh..I haven’t had issues in a while, but the meds I’m on for my heart...can make my dick not cooperate.” He’s learned it’s best to be blunt. 

Bucky inhales sharply and his next utterance is heartfelt. “_Shit_ no kidding.” And Steve knows if anyone would understand him in this, it’d be Bucky. 

“Hey, we got the thirty going on eighty club over here, no shame in that.” 

“Steve, some of my eighty year olds definitely get more action than I ever have.”

Steve cracks up. “No!”

“Hey, they’re old, not dead. Doesn’t bother me as long as it’s not in the hospital and no one breaks a hip.” 

Steve knows that it’s not funny, but he can’t stop giggling and Bucky is laughing with him as they install themselves back on the couch. 

“Seriously Steve, you did surprise me, but not in a bad way. Open, straightforward communication wasn’t exactly a hallmark of my past relationship.” 

Steve pushes his feet back under Bucky. He’s not cold, but he likes feeling anchored to him. “Well, we’re not exactly trying to recreate that, right?” Bucky shakes his head, and Herman, who has reappeared, settles his way between them in an imperious manner. 

Bucky lets Steve skip all the way through the cancer subplot into the fifth season without questioning him, and he’s so easy going about it that Steve wants to tell Bucky about his mom, but he’s just not...ready, so they watch the episode with the town full of vampires together, with Bucky unable to restrain his commentary on Mulder. 

“Seriously, Steve, that guy is a douche. _He just killed a teenager with a stake_.”

“Buck, he thought he was a vampire.” 

He scoffs “That does _not_ make it better.” And later,

“Oh, fuck, no, if I was Scully I’d make him do the autopsy! Stealing her bed _and_ her pizza. He _deserves_ exsanguination!” Steve has to poke Bucky in the ribs with his toes until he subsides, giggling, and lets them finish the episode in peace.

At home that night Steve wakes up from nightmares twice; gentle, mundane scenes at home with his mom that twist into horror around the edges and leave him tossing and turning. He wishes he had Bucky with him to snuggle up to, distract him from his thoughts. Before he drifts off again, he thinks wistfully that his mom would have liked Bucky a lot, would have probably jumped in on teasing him about his ridiculous crush on Mulder.

The next day, Natasha comes over in the afternoon. September Community Day is in a few days, and they’d made plans to trade to clear out their inventories in preparation for the massive influx of Chikorita coming their way. They’re also making good on a long held intention to screen print t-shirts for the occasion. 

Community Day is a monthly affair, where a specific Pokémon shows up in increased numbers for a few hours. Their local PoGo group usually makes an extra effort to get the community involved, setting up at a local park and organizing a variety of activities. It’s silly but fun and even someone as reclusive as Steve has been for the last couple years appreciates the hell out of it. As a nerdy kid playing video games by himself, he’d never imagined that he’d get to hunt Pokémon in real life with people his age, little kids, grandparents, people from all ages and walks of life. 

Chikorita is not necessarily exciting to him, but he’s spent each Community Day with Natasha since Pokémon Go started, and is glad to see Nat for their normal pre-community day ritual. She’s been scarce lately, and he misses her.

She makes herself comfortable at the table while Steve makes them lunch, toasting bread and rummaging through the fridge for fruit or veg that hasn’t gone off. He assembles sandwiches, layering roast beef, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes while describing an elaborate miscommunication taking place recently between himself and his editor. Natasha keeps herself busy trading between Steve’s phone and her own, responding absently as Steve rattles on.

When Steve dishes them up, (sandwiches, cut up carrots, sad but still edible blueberries, and assorted not quite soggy chips), Natasha is less than impressed. “Steve, are you trying to clean out your fridge on my plate again?” 

“You don’t want it, make something else. I’m eating the same thing.”

“Hmmm,” and she picks at her sandwich, pulling out the meat and cheese to eat first, and rolling a blueberry back and forth. Steve attempts to catch up with her, but she meets all of his inquiries with monosyllabic answers. _How are you? Busy. How is work? Busy. How is Clint? Dunno. Are you ready for Chikorita? Yeah._

He watches as Natasha tries to balance the beleaguered blueberry on the sharp end of a carrot. 

Her hair is down, and Steve thinks it must be a while since she’s washed it - her curls are falling in loose spirals, and the top of her head is frizzy. The skin under her eyes looks fragile and he can see the small scar on the top of her shoulder from the mole removal, cutting through the web tattoo covering her shoulders. She catches him staring, crumbs smeared on her cheek, and Steve suddenly feels worried. 

“Nat, you look like hell, what’s up?” 

She impales the blueberry, then eats it. “Nothing, just tired, working a lot, you know.” Steve does not believe her, because it takes more than a heavy workload for Natasha to be out and about looking less than put together, even if “out” is just arts and crafts time at Steve’s house. 

He brushes the crumbs off her face, which makes her frown. He pulls his hand back before she can smack him and then gently pokes her hand where she’s gripping a defenseless carrot stick with the fervor of a bulldog. She doesn’t loosen it. 

“Come on, I can tell something’s wrong. What are you up to?” 

She sighs “Steve, I’m fine, I am just truly, legitimately, really fucking tired and I do not want to talk about it.” 

He continues to stare at her, and she pretends not to notice, chomps viciously on the carrot, and then systematically polishes off the remains of her sandwich and all the rest of her chips.

“Nat…”

“Steve, _fuck off_, it’s none of your business!” 

And she gets up from the table abruptly and commandeers his office for the rest of the afternoon and he can hear her making client calls, delivering information in a sharp, matter of fact tone. 

Steve’s irritated and doesn’t bother to hide it, cleaning up the kitchen and tidying up the living room with truncated, impatient movements. He’d asked Nat if Bucky could join them for the screen printing, and she’d agreed, with some teasing. Initially, he hadn’t been worried, but now, with him and Nat in a fight? He’s not so sure. 

Regardless, he gets the screen printing stuff set up. He doesn’t draw as much anymore, but his skill level was still adequate to render a passable rendition of the Valor mascot, Moltres, as well as the words “TEAM VALOR”. He’d built the frames already, but digs out his utility knife with a sigh to cut out the stencils. It’s tedious, exacting work, and he can’t hold onto his anger and maintain an appropriate level of focus, not if he doesn’t want to ruin the stencil. 

By the time he’s cut out the last letters, he’s cooled down and he regrets being pushy. Natasha is garbage at hiding stuff from him, but she’s also stubborn as fuck, and she won’t tell him anything until she’s good and ready. He starts baking brownies in a vague attempt at a peace offering. 

The smell of chocolate eventually lures Nat out, and she wanders into the kitchen with studied nonchalance, propping an ankle on the counter and leaning forward over her leg. It’s a move designed to irritate, with Steve having a definite and well-known preference for people keeping their dirty bare feet off food surfaces. 

He musters his will and ignores the foot, offering a brownie batter covered spatula which is snatched out of his hand faster than he can blink. Running soapy water into the sink, he scrubs the remaining dishes before she can steal the bowl, hoping this won’t be the time Nat gets salmonella from raw eggs. 

“Nat, I wanted to make Bucky a fighting uterus shirt. Do you still have the stencil? 

“Yeah, I brought it, it’s in my bag.” Her voice is muffled as she roots around in the fridge, and Steve is staring at the back of her head and shoulders absentmindedly while his hands go on autopilot. The pieces are starting to click in his mind when she turns around, milk in hand. 

“I was wondering if you’d make a new stencil, with a few smaller ones in a row or a zig zag? I want to pattern a scarf or a bag or something…” Her voice trails off as Steve looks her over, adding the scraped toes and bruised knees poking out of her leggings to the sharply winged scapula and prominent vertebrae he’d seen when her back had been to him. The tired, worn look she had always got from late night rehearsals and being pulled in too many directions. 

“Natasha!!”

She sets her jaw and Steve knows the temporary truce is over. “What?!”

“_You’re dancing again._ What in the hell are you thinking?!”

She stares at him warily, and he can tell she’s trying to figure out what to say, how to navigate this landmine. 

“Of course, I never stopped. I take ballet every week.” 

“Do _not_ fucking lie to me, I can tell!” 

And it’s on, Natasha looks ready to rip his head off, cheeks scarlet. She sets the milk down with exaggerated care and turns back to him. 

“I did _not_ lie to you, I kept it from you. Because I knew you’d be a total dickbag! AND YOU ARE!”

“I’m not a _dick_, I’m worried…”

“...it’s not your business..”

“...most fucking _stupid_ thing..”

“...so goddamn judgemental…” 

Steve knows his face is completely red and Natasha’s hands are clenched into fists as they yell over each other. 

“Steve, shut up _for once_ and Let. Me. Talk.” Steve clamps his jaw shut and waits. 

Natasha sighs, “I am dancing again, but it’s a small company, and it’s strictly _for fun_, everyone is very nice and has a life other than dance and there is no weird shit going on, far as I can tell.” 

“Then why do _you_ look like shit?”

“Oh, real nice, thank you so much. I look like shit because like I _said_ I have had a legitimately shitty, exhausting week and I am probably literally turning into shit the longer I have to listen to you.” She ticks off points on her fingers, one by one. 

“I’m out of shape, dancing shape anyways, I’ve been cramming the whole repertoire into my brain, I had three clients drop new deadlines on me, another project has completely imploded, and it’s all I can do to keep up.”

“But! It’s just piss poor timing, and once I get some rest, I’ll be fine. You have to trust me, that I’m not going to run into a bad situation again.” And her voice is softer now. “Steve, I really miss it _so much_, and it’s been years. I want to try again, I know I look bad, but it’s temporary, I promise.” Her face is earnest, yearning, and Steve’s anger is abruptly gone. 

“Ugh. I’m sorry Nat. I shouldn’t have been..” He can’t decide between overbearing or intrusive, he’s both, so he goes with something more general and always applicable. “...such an asshole, it’s just...last time...”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” She flaps a dismissive hand at him. 

“I just _worry_, I can’t stop that, but I’ll trust you. I’m sorry.” 

“Forgiven, but I want the brownies. And you to make me that stencil.”

“All of them?”

“Fuck yes, _all of them_.” 

“Um, okay, whatever…” Nat must be having a rough time if she feels like she needs that much chocolate, and to let him off that easy. “Can we...hug? In formal recognition of this agreement between us?” 

“Ugh, I guess.” She takes the initiative for once, twining her strong arms around his waist, and he squeezes her, hard, and his heart is so full of tenderness and worry.

“Steve? You’re not wrong, exactly. It’s been more difficult than I thought it would be, but it’s still not _bad_, not like before. And I guess I could have mentioned it sooner, I was just...I guess not sure yet of my own decision.” 

“Yeah well, I guess I could not be an asshole, and you could not be stubborn as shit, but that’s not ever going to happen.” 

He knows it won’t be the last time that they’ll fight, but out of all the ways their lives have turned out unexpectedly, having her as his de-facto family has been the best part. 

The doorbell rings, and Natasha springs away from him like a scalded cat. Steve realizes Bucky is probably here, and he hasn’t changed out of the sweaty shorts and tank top he put on this morning to clean. Nat gets the door for him, and he scrambles into the shower and tumbles out in a record eight minutes, hair damp and face pink from scrubbing. 

Bucky and Nat are on the couch, heads bent together as they sort through the bag of clean, plain t shirts Steve has accumulated over time. Steve feels suddenly shy when they both look up at him, Bucky’s face open and affectionate, Natasha smiling and then blanching as she looks him over. 

“Steve, is that your mom’s sweatshirt?” 

He looks down at himself. He always manages to make a mess of himself when screen printing, so he’s barefoot and in an old pair of jeans, threadbare and snug from repeated washing, with the denim holding the barest hint of blue. His bright purple sweatshirt had indeed been his mother’s. She’d had a half dozen of the things, each printed with a colorful animal, half with faux knit collars. Steve had always laughed at them when she’d been alive, but he hadn’t been able to bear getting rid of them, and this particular one has a rearing horse in jewel tones on the front. 

“Uh, yeah, Nat, you know it is. You probably saw her wear this one, she liked it a lot.”

She says nothing further, and Steve bustles around getting out the ink and inspecting both Bucky and Natasha’s shirt selections. He ends up doing most of the actual screen printing, carefully pressing the red ink into each shirt and hanging them to dry while Bucky and Natasha giggle and whisper while ostensibly clearing out their phone inventories. 

Natasha tells Bucky about Steve’s ongoing, futile quest for a golden Magikarp, and Bucky checks out Steve’s Pokedex to confirm that Nat is not exaggerating. 

“Jesus, you’ve caught almost a thousand...and you’ve seen nearly double that?! The rate is supposed to be like, one in two or three hundred.” 

Natasha is surprised, “Oh! You’ve caught even more since the last time I checked. Still no shiny though, wow.” 

“Steve.” Bucky is completely serious. “The RNG gods are literally mocking you.”

Steve resists the urge to dump glitter on the wet ink of both of their shirts. 

“Oh, thanks guys, I always like being reminded of my failures.” 

They order pizza midway through the night, and Natasha takes the opportunity to nag him when he’s in the kitchen. He’s hurriedly assembling a salad when Nat hisses into his ear “Steve you are never going to get laid again if you keep wearing your mom’s fucking clothes.” 

He closes his eyes briefly, wishes for the earth to swallow him. When that desire fails to materialize into the universe, he hisses back “Keep your voice down.” And then, in a normal tone of voice, “I have it under control.” She plucks at his shirt. “You don’t.” 

Steve keeps it to himself that he definitely saw Bucky checking out his ass when he was crawling around on the floor to make the screen printing happen. Also, he thinks that Bucky likes the way he dresses. Though he’s not going to ask, just in case he doesn’t.

“Nat, please, don’t help me. I don’t think I can survive it. Take this out to the living room, okay?”

Natasha pokes at the salad. It’s not a creative masterpiece, but the lettuce is at least fresh and crisp. “Steve, what is this?” 

“Uh, salad? Obviously? I’m..trying to eat better.” Natasha hmmmmms at him suspiciously, but helps him with setting up the food in the living room anyways. Steve is secretly pleased when Bucky takes a big serving of the salad. 

After Community Day, Steve manages to talk Bucky into going camping with him. 

It was an unexpected trip. Steve had been absently browsing recreation.gov when he came across an available campsite near Mount Rainier. Most sites near the mountain are booked months in advance, and he’d nearly strained his finger, he’d clicked so fast on the reservation link. Then, he had almost fallen out of his chair in his rush to get his wallet and complete the reservation, and then he’d called Bucky. He’d been thinking about getting out in nature with Bucky ever since the Adventure Week fiasco, and here was the perfect opportunity.

Bucky had been a little hesitant. “It sounds fun, but I dunno Steve, I’ve never been camping before. Maybe you’d rather go with Natasha?”

Steve had hurriedly reassured him that Bucky could absolutely handle car camping, he absolutely did not want to go with Natasha instead of him, and that Mount Rainier is beautiful and completely worth seeing and while it’s technically an active volcano, the chance of it erupting and killing them all while they are actually there is pretty minimal.

That last part seems to upset Bucky, who apparently hadn’t looked into whether or not there were active volcanoes in Washington state before impulsively moving here. He’s rectifying that mistake now, and his outrage is palpable 

“Steve, there are five fucking volcanoes in this state!” 

“Um, yeah, Buck, there are.”

“What the fuck?”

“Buck, it sounds scary, and if they erupted, it would be scary, but you know, other regions have it worse, the Midwest, California...plus you know, there’d be earthquakes ahead of time. Oh! Did you know about the fault line? We could have earthquakes anytime, we’re just lucky and haven’t, and with the Puget Sound there’s always the chance of a tsunami or flood…”

Steve lamely trails off, belatedly realizing that cheerfully listing all of the possible natural disasters that could happen is not going to help. It’s too late though, and Bucky sputters helplessly and rants at length. He’s pretty worked up, and Steve kind of loves it even though he knows he probably has a 0.01% chance now to kiss Bucky Barnes under the stars by a campfire after eating s’mores, and maybe, if he’s lucky, coax him into sharing sleeping bags. 

Somehow though, Steve does get lucky and Bucky comes around, after doing extensive research, and assembling an incredibly well stocked home survival kit. (It had been another rant worthy of the books when Bucky had found out that Al’s idea of a survival kit consisted of a carton of cigarettes, bottled water, and a case of extremely questionable protein drinks.) 

Steve finds himself up at the ass crack of dawn on a Friday morning. He’d loaded the van the night before, and had been checking the weather forecast, which had promised them clear, sunny skies. 

Despite the early hour, Steve is surprised at his level of excitement for the weekend. It’s unexpected and he takes a minute to savor the feeling of pleasant anticipation in his belly before heading out to pick up Bucky. 

When he pulls up around the back, Bucky shuffles out of the mother-in-law bundled up in a hooded sweatshirt. There’s an absurdly large duffel bag over his shoulder, his sunglasses are perched incongruously on the end of his nose, and wisps of hair are escaping out of his hood. Steve parks and helps Bucky ferry his things into the van; said duffel bag, a pillow, a sleeping bag that looks like it was stolen from a seven year old at a sleep-over, and a second huge bag stuffed full of snacks. Steve briefly wonders just how much stuff Bucky needs for a single weekend in the woods, but he Tetrises it all in without comment. Bucky goes back inside, and emerges with an extra blanket, which he wraps around himself before tucking himself into the front seat. He’s snoring, mouth open, before they even hit the freeway, and Steve knows he shouldn’t think it’s cute, but he does. 

Bucky perks up a little after they go through a drive through for coffee and breakfast sandwiches, enough to fumble for his phone and put on some music. Steve’s got a soft, dopey smile on his face, which stays in place right up until it starts pouring within an hour of them leaving, with no signs of it letting up as they drive through the morning. They make good time, in spite of the rain and the Friday morning traffic, and before he fully realizes it, Steve is showing his park permit and carefully navigating the car up to Paradise. 

Paradise, as usual, is beautiful. It’s seated at the base of the mountain and the wildflowers are in full bloom. There’s an old timey inn and a visitor’s center, and a few gentle, easy trails segueing off into more challenging hikes. They start off in the visitor’s center, and by now, Bucky is awake enough to become absorbed in the history of the mountain itself and the construction of the inn in the 1900’s. 

Steve’s learned by now that Bucky is the kind of person who will read every bit of text, touch every interactive bug, plant, and rock, and watch all the instructive videos. Steve’s not, usually being too restless to do more than look at the pictures and skim captions. Bucky’s careful attention charms him though, and he finds himself enjoying the visitor center more than usual, despite having seen it before. While Bucky is reading a caption on weather patterns on the mountain, he twines his fingers into Bucky’s, tugs him over to see a display of native animals, and they go through the rest of the exhibit hand in hand. 

After, they try to wait out the weather in the inn. It’s crowded, and they take their hot chocolate out to the front porch and spend most of the afternoon watching the rain cascade down and pool on the ground. Steve’s starting to think they might as well head down and set up their campsite when suddenly, the rain eases for a minute and the clouds lift, revealing the sheer, rocky base of the mountain, capped in sheets of ice and snow and surrounded by fields of purple and pink and orange wildflowers. 

Leaving the porch, Steve turns slowly, around, taking in the full view. And..it’s completely ridiculous, but there’s enough rain misting down and just enough sun peeking through that a faint rainbow is forming. Bucky’s caught up to him by this point, wraps his hand back around Steve’s, squeezes it tight while his head turns right and left, taking it all in. 

“Steve, it’s beautiful. Worth the rain.” He squeezes Steve’s hand again, “Not sure it’s worth dying for if the volcano erupts, but at least we’ll die together surrounded by flowers and rainbows.”

Steve can’t help but laugh with him. “Well, it’s one way to go.” And then, Bucky looks so beautiful, lit up with laughter that’s it’s easy, so easy for Steve to tug him forward and lean up, pressing his mouth against Bucky’s. Bucky’s lips are cold in the mountain air, stubble rough against Steve’s cheeks, and his breath catches with an audible gasp that Steve swallows. Then, Bucky’s wrapping his other arm around Steve’s waist, pulling him close, dropping a second kiss back on Steve’s lips and Steve thinks his heart might just burst out of his chest. 

Then, the skies open up again, sheets of rain pour down and they run for the porch, laughing like loons as they try to beat the rain. Later in the afternoon, it clears a little and they make an ill fated attempt at one of the little trails wrapping around the base of the mountain. Bucky’s a trooper, doesn’t complain at all, but it’s clear almost immediately that despite his numerous layers, his clothes are no match for the elements. He’s soaked from the intermittent rain almost immediately, and starts shivering uncontrollably halfway through. 

Steve feels like a huge asshole; apparently, despite Bucky bringing what appears to be his whole wardrobe, that does not seem to include a water-proof jacket. He probably should have looked over what Bucky brought with him, made some recommendations but he’d clearly been thinking with his dick and not with any part of him with any modicum of good sense. Once they’ve sloshed their way back to the visitor’s center, Steve stuffs Bucky into one of his bigger wool sweaters and plies him with more hot chocolate until he stops shivering.

When they head back down to set up their campsite, Bucky strips off his sodden socks, pressing his bare toes against the heat vents in the dash with a sigh of pleasure. Steve doesn’t say anything about the feet on the dash, because it’s his fucking fault that Bucky can’t feel his toes. 

Down at the campground, things go rapidly worse. All of the wood at their site is damp, and when Steve hikes back to the station, he finds that they have no extra wood left, dry or otherwise. He makes a valiant attempt with what they have, while Bucky tries to set up the tent. But, despite his best efforts, he can’t even get a spark lit, and he finally leaves off to check in with Bucky. 

Bucky’s got everything laid out correctly though, tent perched on top of the foot pad. But, he’s frowning, looking perplexed, and holding…another tent? 

Steve doesn’t even process what he’s seeing at first. “Oh, Buck, the rain fly has to go on top, or we’ll get soaked.”

“Yeah, Steve, I don’t know much about this but…this looks like another tent? Would the fly be somewhere else?”

“Wait…what?!”

And then Steve’s digging through the tent bag, which is empty of anything else but some stakes and string. Bucky is most definitely holding a second tent, not a rain fly in his hands. Steve riffles through the back of the van, movements increasingly frantic, but he’s pretty fucking sure he’s the idiot who came to the mountain on a rainy day with the boy he wants to impress, with no water proof cover for his goddamn tent. 

He is definitely not going to be kissing Bucky Barnes by the campfire tonight. 

He’s starting to panic a little bit, breathing fast, and Bucky pats his shoulder. “Hey, Steve, come on, do we actually need it?”

He jerks his shoulder away. It’s rude, and he regrets it almost immediately, which makes him more panicked and his voice is cutting through the air, loud, harsh.

“We sure do, you may not have noticed, but it’s fucking pouring, and that tent” He points “Is not water proof!!” He slams the van door shut, hard, venting his frustration. 

Bucky recoils from him, emotions running over his face in a quick cascade - hurt, anger, fear, and then all of it is gone and his face is carefully blank. 

“Steve, I get you’re stressed and this day is not going how you planned, but yelling at me about it is not going to fix anything. It’s not cool.” He looks at Steve for another minute, and Steve can’t interpret his expression. “I’m gonna take a walk.”

Before Steve can say anything, Bucky is turning and trekking up out of their muddy campsite and Steve is left standing there, hands clenched and all his anger pooling around him, useless. 


	4. Absol-utely Critical Communications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s pretty regretful about being an ass, but the universe still has her due.

Steve feels deeply, suddenly ashamed of himself. He forces his hands to relax, pats the slammed door of the van gently, almost apologetically. He’s spent the last couple of years fairly apathetic, doesn’t even remember the last time he flew off the rails about something stupid.

Oh, he does, actually. A couple of weeks ago. At Natasha. 

He’d forgotten the hot shimmer of rage, followed by the empty, cold feeling in his gut as it dissipates, useless and unwanted, and the memory of Bucky’s shocked face makes him freshly aware of how unattractive it is. Hell, Natasha didn’t even want to talk to him about her new company and now he’s driven Bucky off. He’s really fucked up, and isn’t sure at all that Bucky will let him off as easily as Natasha did. If at all. Or if he even deserves to be let off. 

They’ll have to sleep in the van tonight or go home; Steve wouldn’t blame Bucky if he chose the latter. He should really…organize the back of the van, get ready to drive home, figure out dinner, do something, but instead he droops onto the picnic table, pulling his legs up to his chest. It’s drizzling again, and he’d pulled his rain jacket off while he worked on the fire, but he can’t find the energy to get up again. All the panic that had ridden him earlier has blown out of his head, and he feels calmly fatalistic. 

He notes it absently when it starts raining harder, but doesn’t make a move to get under shelter, instead running through the whole fiasco, starting with failing to inspect his own gear ahead of time, then doubling down by failing to look through Bucky’s clothing to make sure he at least had a rain jacket, and then culminating with lashing out at Bucky for his own mistakes. He’d assured Bucky it would be a fun trip, he’d take care of everything, and frankly, he’s behaved recklessly by taking someone inexperienced out unprepared while he himself was unprepared. Ugh. It’s an unmitigated disaster.

Steve still hasn’t moved when Bucky comes back, working on his best impression of moss on a log. He thinks it would be okay if he never moved again, just let the moss grow over him. He’ll become part of the forest. 

When he looks up, he thinks he might be hallucinating. The rain is on the fritz for the moment, and Bucky’s a vision, a literal patron saint of camping; he’s packed into Steve’s fuchsia sweater, wrists sticking out of the too short sleeves. His jeans are a sodden, muddy mess, but his arms are absolutely loaded with dry firewood. He’s unbearably handsome, even with a red nose and damp hair tucked behind his ears and Steve’s gut twists hard with regret.

“Bucky…is that…dry wood?”

“Mmhm, unlock the van for me? I don’t want it to get wet.” Steve does as he’s asked, joints protesting his prolonged immobility. He shuffles back to his new home, the picnic table, while Bucky starts neatly piling the wood into the back of the van. 

“Where did you get all that? They were out when I went up.” 

“Oh, I went and asked around at some of the different campsites. A lot of people had extra, gave me some. I asked about an extra fly too, but no go on that, I guess they come as sets usually?” 

“Um, yeah, usually, or they should.” 

He’s dumbfounded that Bucky apparently roved the campground in the rain, charming random individuals into giving him a metric fuckton of wood on a rainy day in October. Then again, he’d give Bucky all the wood he wanted in exchange for a smile. Or, ugh, anything really. 

Bucky finishes with the wood and then produces a huge wad of newspaper from under his sweater, and shoves it on top. Slamming the van door shut, he turns, and then seems to see Steve for the first time. 

“Oh my God Steve, have you been sitting here in the rain all this time? Where did your jacket go? Jesus, what is wrong with you?” 

Because the day hasn’t been bad enough, Steve surprises himself further by bursting into sniffly tears. Bucky looks mildly alarmed and comes over. After a second, he seems to decide that the soaked wooden table can’t possibly make his jeans any worse off, and he hoists himself up and settles in facing Steve, one leg tucked up.

Steve tries to stop crying and instead starts hiccupping and talking at the same time. He’s not really sure if he’s making any sense, since every other word gets interrupted, but he does his best. 

“I’m sorry Bucky, I got no good excuse I…got embarrassed and just acted like an asshole. I’ve been so excited for this trip, been planning it in my head, and then it’s just been a rainy mess and you’ve been cold and shivering half the day. I feel like a total dick, I talked you into coming out here, told you I’d take care of you, and then fucked it all up!” He’s getting worked up, but not about the right things and he has to breathe for a minute to get back on track. He’s fucked up, sure, but it’s his response that was all wrong. 

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you, Buck, or taken my temper out on you. I’m so sorry. You wanna go home, I’ll take you, right now.” He swallows convulsively three or four times and that seems to take care of the hiccups, but his throat is raw and he can’t think of anything else to say. 

He’s too ashamed to look at Bucky and so he studies his hands, dirt under his fingernails and knuckles red while the quiet sits between them, punctuated by the sniffles he can’t stop. After a few minutes, Steve feels cold fingers on his cheek. He looks up, looks into Bucky’s eyes. Bucky’s face is a mix of rueful affection and irritation. 

“Steve, you’re a dramatic asshole.” 

He pushes his fingers into Steve’s cheek, and Steve can’t help it, he leans into the pressure. He’s getting dizzy, face superheated and Bucky’s chilled fingertips are grounding him, feel like the only thing keeping him from spinning away, unwinding. 

“You’ve just been working yourself up this whole time, huh?” Steve nods, pathetic. Bucky goes on, “Yeah, you were a dick, and it’s not just the yelling, you’ve been stomping around all afternoon, slamming stuff, muttering to yourself, and making me and all the fucking squirrels and bears and whatever else lives out here uncomfortable as fuck. I meant what I said, I’m not gonna do this again with a partner who takes shit out on me, but, you don’t gotta be perfect, I’m sure as hell not.” Bucky’s voice is soft but firm and Steve’s eyes start burning again, chin trembling. 

“We’ll fight, if we’re gonna be together, and sometimes it will be for important stuff, and sometimes it will be about dumb things like who forgot the rain fly. But, if we’re respectful to each other, and use our fucking words, it’ll be okay. I think…” and he waves his hand, “You know that shit you pulled earlier, is something I’m kinda sensitive about, yeah?” Steve nods, again, afraid that he’ll choke if he tries to talk. Bucky seems satisfied with Steve’s apparent misery. 

“Alright, enough, this garbage aside, I’m actually having a good time, I don’t wanna go home. Mountain looks good, the other campers are nice, and I’m here with this guy I kind of like.” He taps Steve’s cheek, a little rough, and then Steve’s full on ugly crying, clutching Bucky’s hand to his cheek. It’s a disproportionate response and Bucky is visibly thrown for a moment. 

“Hey, hey, come here.” And Steve goes, meek, leaning into Bucky and ducking his head, and Bucky’s arms are warm around his shoulders. Bucky presses his cheek to Steve’s head and murmurs into his hair.

“Steve, sweetheart, this is some bullshit, comforting you after you were mean to me.” But his voice is so kind that Steve almost can’t stand it. He’s not usually much of a crier, but ever since he met Bucky his emotions have been dialed up to ten and now he feels exposed, a little creature whose home has been ripped away. Bucky holds him until he feels a little less raw and their asses start to go numb from the cold, wet surface. 

“Goats.” Steve mutters into Bucky’s chest. 

“What?”

“Goats, elk, marmots, mountain lions, all kinds of birds, rabbits. You said, whatever else lives out here.”

“…You just gotta get the last word, huh. Hey, why don’t you show me how to build a fire?”

Steve does show Bucky how to build a fire. It’s dark by the time they coax the flame onto the wood, but the resulting glow is cheerful and warm. They’re both starving, and though Steve had actually prepped a cooler with some things to cook for dinner, he’s too tired to mess with it. So, they raid the giant bag Bucky brought, eating random snacks until the coals are ready for s’mores.

Steve’s usually impatient with roasting marshmallows, shoving them into the fire until they ignite and then blowing the flames out and squishing the whole charcoaled mess between graham crackers and chocolate. He takes the time with the ones he makes for Bucky, properly rotating them over the bright coals until they are golden brown and crispy on the outside. He finds it strangely satisfying to watch Bucky eat them, chocolate melting and ending up in a smear on his cheek, melted marshmallow clinging to his fingertips. 

When they’re sugared out, they sit companionably, Steve leaning against Bucky, Bucky’s feet propped precariously close to the flames. Steve’s front is warm from the fire, and he’s been thinking about rotating for a bit, give his back a chance to warm up. But Bucky seems pleasantly blissed out, staring into the fire with his arm slung around Steve, and Steve likes stealing glances at him like that, sharp jaw and cheekbones softened by the firelight. He doesn’t want to disturb him.

After a bit, Bucky rouses and pulls Steve a little closer, talking into his ear. “Got something on my face? You’re staring.”

He doesn’t, not anymore; Steve had swiped away the chocolate that had ended up on his cheek earlier. “Nah, Buck, I just like to Pikachu.” It’s bad, and Steve can feel himself turning pink, but Bucky snorts and then startles when a fat raindrop lands on his face. He groans.

“Seriously, again?” It’s getting late, getting colder, and they’re both still soggy from the earlier downpour, and Steve realizes they should resolve the sleeping situation as more rain splatters down, onto his head and in the fire.

“Hey, we can drive back tonight, though it’s kind of late and I’m pretty tired, or, you can drive if you want, or we can sleep in the van.”

“Van, it’s too late to drive back.” And Bucky pops up to his feet, pulls Steve up, and together they get the van situated, folding the seats down and lining the back with the sleeping pads and bags. Steve’s ready to climb in, then hesitates. He’d planned to strip down to his boxers, still mostly dry, but they’re both smoky and sticky, and Bucky’s jeans are particularly mud encrusted.

The rain is still mostly holding off, drops falling here and there and Steve can’t stand the idea of that much sugar on his teeth overnight (or how bad his breath will be in the morning) so they shuffle up to the campground bathrooms to clean up.

They brush their teeth together in the fluorescent lighting of the bathrooms, reflections in the metallic mirrors stretched and watery. The bathroom is largely empty this late, and Steve scrubs the marshmallow goo off his hands while idly watching a large moth crawl up the wall, trapped inside by its attraction to the light. A few minutes later, Bucky emerges from the bathroom stall, dressed in his cut off sweats, jeans slung over his shoulder, and his feet shoved into his boots, laces undone and trailing. The moth careens by his head, causing him to flail at it frantically and nearly trip over his laces. 

When they’ve both scrubbed up as much as possible, Bucky doing up his laces and grumbling about it, they exit the bathroom and pause. The rain is back in full force, lashing the trees and running off the eaves of the roof. Steve is sighing, resigned to spending most of this trip soggy when Bucky grabs his hand and yanks, pulling him out in the rain behind him and Steve has to run to keep up. He realizes that Bucky is laughing, and the sound pulls laughter out of him as they fly down the path, rain sleeting down on them. Steve doesn’t run much, and rarely outside, but his feet are navigating the crooked path with unerring certainty, stepping over roots and avoiding branches and before he realizes it, they’re back in their campsite, breathless. 

This time, it’s Steve who backs Bucky up against the van, pushing him flush against the door. Bucky goes, willing. He’s got a big, dumb grin on his face, and he’s staring at Steve like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen, a perfectly toasted s’more and Herman’s rumbly purr and wildflowers all in one. Like before, Steve can’t stop himself, has to lean up and in and feel the curve of upturned lips against his own. The waterlogged air is cold around them, and Bucky’s lips are shockingly warm in contrast. 

Steve takes his time like he did earlier with the marshmallows, like he rarely does, moving his mouth over Bucky’s, rough stubble and smooth cool skin and chapped lips. Steve explores Bucky’s smile, kisses him until he’s not smiling anymore but panting, breath hot and mouth minty from toothpaste. Steve can feel his own pulse pounding in his ears, his lips, his tongue, a distant echo in his groin. Bucky drops the jeans he’d been clutching, fingers lax, and Steve twines his fingers into Bucky’s, traps his hands against the damp, chilled metal of the van door, leans in further until he’s stretched up on the balls of his feet and their chests press together.

The rain is still falling around them, drizzling lightly now instead of pouring down. The fire is nearly dead, wood blackened and soggy from the downpour, and Steve doesn’t think they’ll see even a hint of the stars with the continuous cloud cover. It’s not what Steve had hoped for, what he’d imagined, but he’s still kissing Bucky Barnes, for the second time, and it’s just as good as the first time, and his heart is racing so fast he thinks it’s going to leap right out of his chest and into Bucky’s. 

Bucky pulls his hands free, slides them under Steve’s shirt, and then calloused, cold fingertips are sliding up Steve’s spine, hands curving gently around his ribs. Steve freezes for the barest second, but Bucky doesn’t hesitate, moving at the same inexorable pace. Steve shivers, suddenly and then can’t stop, like his body is finally catching up with the fact that it’s been getting colder and colder. Bucky’s teeth start chattering in imagined sympathy. “Steve, sweetheart, I’m about done with this rain, can we get under cover?” 

Steve can’t get the van open fast enough, tugging at the handle a few times before realizing it’s locked. He fumbles for the keys and then they’re tumbling into the back together onto the sleeping bags, only pausing to kick off damp boots.

“Oh, shit, wait, the fire, hold on.” And Steve clambers back out, gets his boots back on and goes to take care of the fire because fire safety is important and the real kicker for this whole trip would be him somehow burning down the woods despite the downpour that’s plagued them all day. Good sense reasserted, he also sweeps the site, makes sure there’s no food left out that would attract animals, struck by a mental image of Smokey the Bear ravaging their supply of snacks and then sticking around to deliver a lecture on fire safety. 

Back in the van, Bucky’s already tucked into his sleeping bag. “Everything good out there?” “Yeah, just wanna make sure we don’t burn down the forest or anything.” Steve feels awkward while he peels out of his own wet clothes, leaving him in his boxers, and he kind of wishes he hadn’t stopped things, had just put a pin in the fire for later because now he feels exposed and unsure of himself, and he scoots right into his sleeping bag after getting a lantern lit on the floor near their heads. 

He shouldn’t have worried, because as soon as he’s settled, Bucky’s reaching for him, mouth hot and eager and a little sloppy with kisses over his cheeks and his jaw and his nose and it’s really nice and Steve’s brain drifts for a bit, hazy with pleasure. Next thing he knows, Bucky has unzipped his own sleeping bag and is fumbling with the zipper of his, so Steve gets his head back on and helps and then Bucky is wrapping himself around Steve and the feel of his bare torso against Steve’s is perfection and-

“JESUS FUCK are those your feet?!”

Steve jumps about a foot in the air, his balls becoming a distant memory with how far they retract into his body, and Bucky is pulling back the literal ice cubes at the end of his ankles he just attempted to castrate Steve with. 

“Fuck, sorry Steve, my feet get really cold, bad circulation.” Bucky’s kinda sheepish and embarrassed and Steve immediately feels bad.

“Oh, damn it, it’s okay, come back here.” He traps Bucky’s feet between his calves, shivers intensely for a moment while the heat is leached from his legs. His heart rate finally calms the fuck down and his balls become more than a distant memory and he rolls on top of Bucky. He’s got enough presence of mind to pause long enough to ask, “This okay, Buck?” And waits for his nod before getting his hands into Bucky’s hair. The strands are rough from the elemental shitshow, and tangled, but he still likes the feel of it against his hands. He likes it more when he tugs lightly and a little noise escapes Bucky’s throat and he swallows hard, tilting his head back for Steve.

And Steve can’t resist the length of Bucky’s throat. He tastes the transition from stubble to smooth skin with his tongue, and nips at the big tendon that runs from jaw to clavicle. He licks at the soft spot he finds, just behind Bucky’s jaw and savors each gasp, sweet sounding and increasingly frantic.

He keeps it up until Bucky wiggles under him, twisting a hand into his hair and yanking impatiently at it, panting “Steve, Steve, hold up, _wait_” and Steve remembers, suddenly, what Bucky had told him about steadiness. He pulls back, tries to back down and Bucky slides his hand over the back of his neck, eases his lips back over Steve’s. Steve kisses him back, slowly, lazily, and Bucky’s hand loosens over his neck, both now roaming up and down his back, stroking over his ribs and curving over his hips.

The buildup is slow, so slow this time and so good. Touching Bucky, being touched by Bucky usually totally lights Steve up, borderline too much at the best of times, but this time it’s like sinking into a hot bath, heat shimmering up and down his back, settling into his bones and leaving him disintegrating at the edges, a bath bomb melting away in a shower of glitter and colorful dye.

Before he’s completely gone, Steve pulls away, trying to relinquish his position so he’s not trapping Bucky under him. The walls of the van are suddenly, unpleasantly narrow and he slams his arm, hard into the side of the van, cursing.

“Oh jeez, Steve, you okay?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I’m fine.” He shakes his arm out, and yeah, that will probably bruise but nothing lasting. Bucky kisses his elbow anyway, a wet smacking kiss that makes him laugh. Then he tries ineffectively to wriggle under Bucky and they wrestle pleasantly for a few minutes, re-arranging limbs and exchanging sloppy kisses aimed at no particular target until Bucky crawls over him, sprawls on top of him and Steve wraps a leg around his waist and _oh_ that is…_really fucking nice_ and Bucky looks so good over him, skin flushed pink and damp with sweat and eyes shadowed by the flickering lantern and Steve really hadn’t needed to worry about his dick being on board with this whole activity. It’s ready to ride this train into hell and anywhere else Bucky might choose to lead him.

But he still can’t quite turn off the worry in his brain, so he gets up a hand between them, strokes over the thick stubble on Bucky’s cheeks that seems to pop up approximately 60 seconds after he shaves, presses his thumb into his chin and grips his jaw.

“Bucky…”

“Y-yeah?” His voice comes out rough, choked. Steve can feel Bucky getting hard against him, and he resists the urge to seek more sensation, to press up into him and make him fall apart and cry out. 

“You okay? You wanna keep going? You think you can..not get too worked up?”

“I want to, I wanna try..can I?” And then he pushes his hips against Steve, startles a groan out of him and then pauses, and Steve realizes he’s waiting for an answer.

“Fuck, yes, Bucky, please, please, I want you to.” 

And from there, Bucky sets the pace and Steve gives himself up, knows he’s going to follow Bucky anywhere he wants to go tonight. Bucky’s mouth is relentless, kissing Steve until he’s breathless, sucking under his jaw, along his throat, over his collarbone, hands busy as they move up and down over his sides in a way that might be soothing at another time.

All the while, he sets a slow, grinding, pace, rubbing his cock into Steve’s until all Steve can do is hold on, legs wrapped tightly around Bucky’s hips and his fingers scrabbling helplessly at the sleeping bags tangled around them. Pleasure keeps crashing through him, hot at the base of his spine and little, helpless noises he’s never heard himself make before fall out of his lips. 

It’s not a linear progression. Bucky pulls back, from time to time, shoulders shaking and needing to take deep, steady breaths. Steve encourages him all the while, tells him how good he’s doing, how good he is, how much Steve wants him. And each time, Bucky comes back, building them up again and again until finally, his whole body goes tense and his eyes squeeze shut and Steve can feel him on the edge, worries he’s going to slip away.

It seems terribly important that they do this together, that they’re successful, so Steve tries, “Buck, baby, eyes open, look at me, please.” And Bucky’s eyes snap open, so dilated he can barely see the gray, but they’re focused and intense on Steve’s and it seems to be what he needs; he thrusts hard against Steve, one more time, and cries out, a desperate, broken sound while his body goes rigid, and then Steve can feel Bucky’s dick pulsing against him, hot and hard even through the layers of clothing and Bucky bows his head, presses his forehead to Steve’s.

Steve tries to be gentle with him, soothe him, but Bucky doesn’t stay there long. Less than a minute passes before he’s pushing himself up, on his right hand and he’s pulling at Steve’s boxers with his left, clumsy and frantic “Steve, Stevie, let me..can I touch you.. please?”

And Steve can’t talk but his head is nodding, keeps nodding until Bucky wraps his hand around his dick, and the angle is weird but it feels absolutely amazing. Bucky’s hand is cool and slick, and he twists hard on the upstroke, and barely another minute has gone by before Steve’s coming, dick jerking in Bucky’s grip, both breathing hard and Steve seeing sparks around the edge of his vision.

Bucky fumbles under his own jaw, and Steve realizes he’s taking his own pulse, and he lets him do it, is relieved when Bucky’s body relaxes against his, eyes fluttering shut. His limp body is heavy, and Steve pushes at him trying to move him. Bucky lets himself be manhandled, and they get settled on their sides, Steve’s chest pressed against Bucky’s back. They’re both gross, but Steve figures clean up can wait. He can feel Bucky’s shoulders shaking against him, and he sniffles, once, twice. The third time, Steve knows he has to say something. “Okay, I know I keep bugging you, but you gotta talk to me. You okay?” 

“Steve, I am not crying, cause we’ve already had enough tears on this trip, and I can’t cry in or around your goddamn minivan again after the last time.”

Steve runs his hand up and down Bucky’s flank. “Course you’re not crying, you’re just a bit…overwrought.”

That startles a wet laugh out of Bucky. “Oh please, kind sir, bring me my smelling salts.”

He kisses the back of Bucky’s neck, lifting his hair away first. “No smelling salts here, just some smelly dudes.” Steve tucks his nose behind Bucky’s jaw, and they’re both quiet, Bucky’s breath slowly coming more regularly.

“Stevie…that’s the first time I’ve come with someone since the stroke.” It’s the second time he’s used that nickname, and Steve muses on that before the content hits him.

“Wait, what..Bucky…”

“I mean, I’ve had sex, since.” He snorts, “Well, my ex fucked me plenty. I was too afraid and nervous about fucking him, couldn’t even get hard to try it. And after I panicked a few times mid blow job or while getting jerked off, that was it for him, and honestly for me. We weren’t…the most sexually compatible to begin with, and the panic attacks freaked him out.”

Inexplicably, Bucky pats himself, running his hand down his chest and side. “Well, and maintaining 10% body fat after almost dying and a year of rehab was just not appealing anymore. It was a total turn off for Gary when I lost my abs and didn’t want them back, I mean, I gotta keep healthy, don’t want another stroke if I can help it, but it sure doesn’t require a six-pack.” 

Steve’s pretty sure that whatever percent body fat Bucky has now, he’s still the most attractive guy he’s ever seen, and he tells him so, a little embarrassing in his enthusiasm.

“Buck, Gary’s a loser, a shallow, stupid loser.” He snorts, “I’m lucky he’s a pisspoor rival, doesn’t even know what he had.” 

Bucky turns his head “How long you been waiting to joke about that?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, kisses Steve anyways, a soft peck on his lips. His voice goes quiet. “Thanks Stevie. I’m lucky I met you.”

Steve drifts off with a smile on his face and Bucky warm against him, feet tucked between his calves. 

Steve wakes up the next morning. He’s half off the sleeping pads, face pressed into the side of the van. Bucky’s sprawled next to him on his belly, hugging both the pillows under him, leg pulled up and draped over Steve. The back of the van is a wreck, sleeping bags and blankets pushed aside, windows fogged, reeking of stale sweat and sex. Steve wrinkles his nose, but can’t be too grossed out as he looks Bucky over, enjoying the view. His cut off red sweatpants are thin and worn, tensile strength challenged as they stretch tightly over his ass and thighs. The tattoo of Herman is bright on his calf and Steve realizes he’d never noticed two dimples at the base of his spine. They’re cute, and he wants to kiss them, one at a time.

Bucky wakes up when Steve tries to extricate himself from under his leg, flipping over and stretching, toes pointing and spine popping. “Mmm, morning, you look good. C’mere.” And he immediately reaches for Steve, pulling him close. Bucky’s breath is…not good, and his hair is tangled around his face, but he still smiles sweetly at Steve, and Steve still thinks he’s pretty damn handsome. Steve lets himself be cuddled, rubbing his nose in the dark hair curling on Bucky’s chest and then pillowing his head there. He falls back asleep between one breath and the next, and only wakes up when his bladder starts screaming at him. He’s still curled around Bucky, who is snoring gently and Steve thinks that if they’re going to make this a thing that Bucky should probably get that checked out.

This time he’s successful in untangling himself from Bucky, and gets himself dressed in the previous day’s clothes. Before shuffling up to the bathroom, he pulls the discarded sleeping bags over Bucky. Up at the bathrooms, he can confirm that first off, the sun is finally shining, no dark clouds on the horizon, and that second, Bucky is a horrible liar and he does not look good. His hair is a wild mess, standing on end, his face and neck are raw from Bucky’s stubble (he’s pretty sure that if he could see his chest it’d look the same), and his breath is appalling.

Nonetheless, he cleans up the best he can, scrubbing his body with a damp washcloth, brushing his teeth, and vigorously washing his hands, face and neck. His glasses are filthy, so he cleans them as well, and manages to get himself dressed, pulling on clean underwear and socks, loose cargo pants and a snug, light blue t-shirt, flannel shirt on top.

Back at the campsite, he gets the camping stove out, starts heating water and pulling food out of the cooler while Bucky attends to his own morning routine. Steve takes the time to get the van airing out, and neatly packs their bedding away. By the time he’s done, the water is boiling and he starts assembling breakfast. He’d kept it simple, oatmeal, fruit, and hard-boiled eggs, and brought along instant coffee and bags of the tea that Bucky prefers. 

When Bucky comes shuffling back down the path, the food is ready and Bucky immediately wedges himself into the picnic table, making grabby hands at the bowl of oatmeal that Steve shoves at him. Steve looks him over while Bucky works on his food, cutting up a banana into his oatmeal, peeling eggs, and dipping a tea bag into his mug of hot water. Bucky’s stubble is well on its way to a beard, but his hair is tucked into a neat bun. He’d dressed in a red, long sleeved t-shirt, old looking black track pants, and sneakers. 

He looks soft and comfortable, and totally focused on staging his food for optimal onboarding. When he catches Steve looking while mindlessly rearranging the remaining oatmeal and coffee packets, he stops and grins up at him, pats the table. “C’mere, you gotta eat too.”

Steve comes, and when he settles in opposite Bucky, his own oatmeal covered in brown sugar, he feels a foot come to rest on top of his own and he smiles back. It’s a peaceful breakfast, sunlight filtering down through the trees and birds starting to wake up in the trees. Steve had worried things would be awkward the morning after, but the space between them is easy as ever. 

Bucky cleans up the dishes after Steve explains how to find the slop sink and loads him up with detergent, a sponge, and the full dishtub. He absentmindedly drops a kiss on the top of Steve’s head before wandering off, and Steve is immediately flustered at the casual affection and nearly dumps the left-over food on the ground instead of in the cooler where it belongs. 

Okay, so maybe things between them aren’t exactly easy, but they are unchanged, for Steve at least. When Bucky gets back, they pore over the map of Rainier together, finally settling on a trip to see Sunrise before heading home. It’s kind of dumb, to drive over an hour to the other side of the mountain, but Steve can be superstitious from time to time, and he doesn’t want a repeat of their time at Paradise. And, Sunrise is going to close for the season any day now, and the views are best there. 

During the drive, Steve focuses on the road, while Bucky mostly stares up at the mountain, covered in evergreens and interspersed with dead, grey zones, scars from the summer fires. About an hour later, they pull in and park by the visitor’s center, where Bucky insists on going in and looking through the souvenirs. 

He ends up buying a magnet bedecked with an aggressive looking, fluffy mountain goat, smirking at Steve as he pulls the price sticker off and tucks it in his pocket. Steve can feel his face get hot, which is _ridiculous_ and a total overreaction to a guy’s completely casual souvenir shopping, so he ignores Bucky in favor of pretending to be absorbed in a display of books. 

After Bucky is done with his retail therapy, he and Steve start their planned hike. They had picked a relatively short but steep trail, and Steve thinks they’ll have a good view at the top. He’s relieved to discover that absent dire weather, Bucky’s a relaxed participant, stopping often to poke at or photograph every rock or plant or tree that catches his eye. 

Steve usually hikes with Natasha, whose approach is more akin to a forced march than an enjoyable outdoor walk. When Steve had once indicated he might like to appreciate some of the scenery along the way, she had looked at him, totally uncomprehending. “Steve, we can _appreciate_ the flowers or whatever at the top, get moving.”

So anyway, it’s a pleasant change to amble along the trail with Bucky, weaving back and forth along the switchbacks. There aren’t many wildflowers left this late in the season, but he does sneak a surreptitious photo of Bucky crouching by one of the few flowers left, fingertip stroking a vivid orange petal. They’re...really not supposed to be touching the plants, but the sight of Bucky’s hands, so gentle on a flower makes Steve melt a little. The photo is blurry but he saves it anyways, and distracts Bucky by pointing out a pair of fat marmots, engaged in something that could be a mating ritual, a fight, or possibly both. 

As they reach the apex of the trail, the green starts to give way to brown clusters of rock. Steve hears and then sees a tiny pika, then two, then three. They’re shrill and loud, erratic in their movements, popping up at random in various rock clusters. Bucky looks resigned for the inevitable Pokémon joke when he hears the name of the tiny mammal, so Steve refuses to deliver it. He’ll text him an appropriate meme later when his guard is down.

The last stretch is steeper, and they’re both out of breath when they reach the top, Steve pausing for a second to assess if he needs his inhaler. Deciding against it, he takes in the view, turning to get the full effect. He points out the glaciers and the nearby, neighboring mountains to Bucky, who mutters darkly about volcanoes under his breath, and deliberately angles the selfie they take so that the flower fields are in the background rather than the mountains. 

After they’ve been all around the lookout point, they sit companionably together on a rock, Bucky turning his face up to the chilly sunshine, and Steve eating trail mix, picking out the chocolate and dried cherries and leaving the nuts. He offers the bag to Bucky, who has _opinions_ on assholes that eat all the good bits and leave the rest, but he picks through it anyway. 

Things go sour on the way back. They’re three quarters of the way back, and the numerous switchbacks are less charming on the way down, filled as they are with small, loose rocks that seem particularly treacherous. Bucky had fallen behind, taking what seems like his millionth photo of yet another completely identical pine tree when Steve steps just wrong, foot catching the edge of a rounded rock. His ankle rolls, pitching him sideways and sending him sliding down the steep slope.

He attempts to catch himself, belatedly, gravel biting deep into his palms and scraping along his leg, and finally comes to a stop. He immediately pops up, too embarrassed to take stock, only for his ankle to give way, sending him back down with a wordless cry of pain. He has a brief, futile thought that maybe Bucky won’t notice, but of course Steve had been leading the way and Bucky would have to be blind and deaf not to notice.

He briefly considers burrowing into the gravel, or rolling off the path, anything to avoid further embarrassment but Bucky is catching up with him and kneeling carefully beside him before he can put any ill-considered schemes into action. Anyway, it’s bad for the wildflowers to have humans tromping all over them off the trail, and Bucky would definitely come after him even without his big stompy boots on, so it’s just a bad idea all around.

As usual, Bucky is kinder than Steve expects. There’s no amusement in his face, only worry, and he gets Steve sitting up in short order, legs stretched in front of him and asking questions. _Did his ankle crack? Did he hear it? Can he move it? Is he lightheaded, dizzy, nauseous? Did he hit his head?_ Steve answers mostly in the negative; he’s a little nauseous, but it subsides after some deep breathing, leaving him with a sharp, throbbing pain in his right ankle.

“Steve, I really don’t want you walking on that yet, I’ll check it out when we get off the trail. It’s probably not broken, but if it is….” And he trails off, but Steve gets the idea.

“Buck, how am I gonna get off the mountain though?” He’s starting to panic, breathing fast while nausea twists through him. Bucky strokes his hair soothingly. “Come on Steve, keep breathing, nice and slow. I’ll help you, don’t worry. It won’t be fun, but you’re going to be fine.”

Before Steve knows it, Bucky’s got him up, balanced on one leg, arms wrapped around Bucky to balance. Bucky hesitates. “Steve, you’re gonna hate this, but… I think I should carry you, okay?” Steve is too miserable to fight much. Bucky is gentle with him, but the process of Steve clambering onto his back piggy-back style is not pretty. Steve’s ankle gets jarred more than once and he has to grit his teeth to avoid crying out. 

It’s a long way down, Bucky gripping Steve’s thighs tightly, Steve’s arms wrapped around Bucky’s neck. Every shift of the gravel under Bucky’s feet sends new waves of pain through Steve, and he keeps his forehead pressed into Bucky’s shoulder, trying to ground himself. They stop a few times, Bucky propping Steve against a tree while he shakes out his left arm, fatiguing more rapidly than his right.

After what feels like an agonizing length of time, the parking lot and the red minivan come into view, and Steve has never felt so relieved. Bucky lets him down, carefully, and he hops to the van with help from Bucky. They get the back open, and he sinks down with a profound sigh of relief. Bucky looks exhausted, sweat running down his brow and drenching his shirt. Despite that, he’s still calm and unhurried, letting Steve rest for a few minutes.

“Alright, you won’t like this either, but I need to know if we should go to the hospital, or if we can go home.” Steve would normally protest, but Bucky’s clear fatigue tugs at him, and he doesn’t have it in him right now to argue.

“First, can you walk? I didn’t want you to do it before, on the gravel and the incline, but let’s see if you can bear any weight on it at all.” Steve pushes himself up on his hands, and then, carefully, lets his right foot down. It hurts, but he can do it. He limps a few steps away from the van and it doesn’t feel good; in fact, it feels fucking awful and he can barely keep his foot down, but he does it, and then Bucky is helping him back. After getting him situated in the passenger seat of the van, legs dangling, Bucky crouches in front of him and gets both boots unlaced, pulling them gently off, and then peeling off Steve’s socks. Steve holds his socks, rests his cheek against the headrest, and watches Bucky. 

The right ankle is swollen and bruised looking, but Bucky manipulates it gently, pressing hard at various points and watching Steve carefully. None of it feels good and Steve can feel himself sweating, but Bucky seems satisfied and is visibly less worried.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think it’s broken, just sprained. Now, I can still take you to the hospital, if you want X-Rays, but it’d be black and blue and you wouldn’t be able to walk at all if it was broken. And some of those spots I pushed on would send you through the roof. Up to you though, you tell me what you want.”

Steve doesn’t have to think twice.

“Home, please. But…I don’t think I can drive.”

Bucky looks strained. “I’ll…drive.” Steve realizes he’s never seen Bucky drive, he doesn’t have a car. He walks everywhere, or takes transit. “I do have a license; I just don’t like to drive after the…” And he waves his hand vaguely.

Bucky gets Steve to prop his ankle up on the dash. “I _know_ it’s not safe Steve, but if you sit with that leg dangling for three hours, it’s gonna blow right up and you will feel awful.” He makes a quick trip to the bathroom, comes back with a t-shirt soaked in cold water, and drapes it around Steve’s neck. It feels good, and Steve feels the nausea and pain recede a bit. Then, Steve digs the keys out of his pocket, and Bucky is firing up the van and they’re pulling out of Sunrise.

It’s not a fun drive back. Bucky is very clearly uncomfortable driving, and even more so on the narrow, winding roads. He does his best to keep to the speed limit, knuckles white on the steering wheel. But, more than one car pulls around them, which makes him even more nervous. Steve tries to be reassuring but is distracted by his own pain, spacing out and coming to whenever Bucky slams the brakes too quickly or slows abruptly.

Bucky pulls over at the first convenience store they pass and comes back out, loads Steve up on Tylenol and wraps him in a newly soaked cold towel. The rest of the drive passes slowly, Bucky’s jaw clenched so tight that Steve worries for his teeth. As they’re getting close to home, Bucky loosens his jaw, which produces an audible crack that Steve finds frankly alarming.

“Steve, we can’t do this again.” And Steve feels a kick of fear in his belly at the ominous words, but he lets Bucky continue. “We’ve gone on two trips together now, and we’ve both cried, _more than once_, we camped in a fucking deluge, you sprained your ankle, we’ve had car trouble. It’s too much. Next time we go anywhere, I want to go somewhere warm. I want you in a swimsuit, and both of us happy, and maybe blowjobs on the beach or something. I don’t know, I don’t have it fully planned out yet.”

Steve’s a little thrown, but he’s relieved that despite the complete and unmitigated disaster of this trip, Bucky does want to go somewhere else with him. “I don’t look good in a swimsuit.”

“Oh, bullshit.” Bucky responds cheerfully “I’ve seen pictures, you look awesome.”

Steve completely forgets the pain in his ankle, he is so furious.

“_I’m going to kill Natasha._”

“Aw, come on Stevie, you know you’d miss her. And, she’s already sent me everything she has, no use being mad now.”

Steve does plan to be mad, but Bucky’s right, now is not the time. He spends the rest of the trip planning his eventual revenge, and it’s very satisfying and an excellent distraction.

Bucky looks wrecked by the time they pull into Steve’s driveway, but he clambers out of the driver’s seat and comes around to help him out regardless. Before he knows it, he’s being settled onto the couch and Bucky is leaning over him. Steve blinks at him, bemused.

“I’m running home real quick, and to the store, I want to get you some stuff, okay? Can you stay put? Do you need anything before I go?” Steve shakes his head, and collapses into the couch cushions. Now that he’s home, safe and somewhat comfortable, he’s crashing hard, worn out by his intense stress response and the long, tense drive home. 

He drifts off right away. 

Steve sleeps deeply and without dreams, barely waking when he hears the door click open. The room around him is dark, and his body feels weightless, floating as his consciousness returns. He’s disoriented, not sure where he is, _when_ he is, just that he doesn’t feel well and now he’s not alone. He calls out,

“…Mom?”

Silence.

And then, a familiar voice, deep, male, “No, Stevie, it’s Bucky.” And then memory crashes back into him and Steve’s eyes sting, hot and sharp. He feels cool fingers on his forehead, realizes someone is sitting beside him.

“Bucky?”

“Right here.”

“My mom is dead.”

“…I figured that. I’m sorry.” And Steve is still floating, the dark cocooning him, keeping him safe. Bucky’s hands anchor him, and his words drop into the silence, small, as though they’re coming from a long, long distance. 

“I killed her. I killed my own mom. I _loved her_ and I killed her.”

Bucky inhales, sharp. “Stevie, first off, I don’t believe that, not at all. Second, you’ve had a long day, a hard day, and I don’t think we should talk about this now, okay? Let’s save it for later, when you’re feeling better. Nap for a bit, I’m going to get you set up.”

Steve doesn’t want to, he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel better, but he lets it go and he drowses, hearing Bucky move through the house. When Bucky comes back, he’s feeling more alert, alert enough to sit up, and let Bucky check his ankle again. He’s more forceful with it this time, pulling it in different directions, comparing it to the left, and finally sitting back on his heels. “Still don’t think it’s broken, but if it’s still bad after a couple days, doctor, right?” Steve nods. “Still wanna stay home?” Steve nods again. 

“Okay, you have to keep that ankle up. Bedroom or couch?

“Couch.”

Bucky has brought crutches, and wraps, and a huge ice pack, and more Tylenol, and an enormous bag filled with Tupperware and other assorted items. Resting Steve’s ankle in his lap, he wraps it, firmly from toes to shin, checking to make sure Steve’s circulation isn’t cut off. The wrap feels good, and Steve says so and Bucky grins at him, shy. “It should, it’ll help keep it from getting too swollen. I remember this much, at least.”

He installs Steve back on the couch, right ankle propped up on the arm rest and Steve well wrapped in blankets, pillow under his head. Bucky had coaxed more Tylenol into him, given him a quick lesson on using crutches (and carefully watched him practice on a trip to the bathroom, and then a second voyage to change into a clean pair of boxers and a shirt).

The ice is apparently if he can’t stand the pain, though Bucky tells him to “optimize the inflammatory process” he should try not to use it if possible.

“Al sent you enough food to get through the apocalypse, I put most of it in the fridge, but I’ll heat you up something before I go. Or…you want me to stay with you tonight? Or to call Natasha?”

Steve’s getting seriously drowsy again, and starting to feel a little flustered at being fussed over so much. “Nah, go on home, please say thank you to Al for me.” Bucky hesitates a little, but then nods and by the time Bucky has finished up leaving everything in reach Steve could possibly need (crutches, water, Tylenol, snacks, phone charger, TV remote…), he’s all but asleep, barely rousing as Bucky leans over him, pushing his tangled hair off his forehead. 

He kisses Steve twice, once on the forehead and again on the lips. Steve’s arms feel like they weigh a million pounds each, but he attempts to wrap them around Bucky’s neck anyway, suddenly unwilling to let him go. He pulls him close, trying to express his gratitude for not leaving him to die on the mountain but mostly rambling; affectionate and sloppy. 

Bucky chuckles and lets him go for a minute before kissing him once more and pulling away. He’s clearly dismissed Steve’s diatribe as too silly to even address. Bucky turns the lights off on his way out and Steve is out before he even hears the door close.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, shivering and ankle aching. He realizes he kicked his blankets off, right leg dangling over the edge of the couch. He’d dreamt he’d been trapped in cold water, trying to swim upwards. He could see the surface, the shining light and pines and the pale amorphous shapes of people. He thought he knew them, tried to kick hard and breach the surface, but the distance never changed. When he opened his mouth to cry for help, icy water trickled down his throat and they could not hear him. 

Hobbling back from the bathroom on his crutches, he remembers midway how he’d clung to Bucky and whispered nonsense in his ear, and he flushes to the tips of his ears. 

He can’t really disagree with his subconscious; Bucky’s easy competence and unfailing kindness made a big impression, as well as Bucky driving over three hours despite his obvious fear. He wants to protect Bucky (even from Steve’s own stupidity). 

But, it’s...a lot to think about, right now, when he’s still cold and shivering from his dream. He curls back into the couch, counting sheep to the dull throb of his ankle, properly elevated above his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pokédex](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20781254/chapters/49384613)


	5. Porygon On You (But Afraid to Go Furret)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve (finally) go on a date for real, in public, with minimal app-based game involvement.

Steve’s ankle improves rapidly while his patience for rest and being fussed over erodes more rapidly. Approximately one full day passes before he starts moving illicitly around the house as soon as he’s alone. Sure, he’s still using his crutches, but he’s certainly not resting.

He’s caught in the act on day three when Bucky stops by after work to check on him. Up until then, Steve had been having an excellent day. He successfully used his crutches as a launch point to crawl on the counter in search of a jar of Nutella that he’s certain he stashed in the upper cabinets to hide from Natasha (and subsequently himself) and that he now has an irresistible craving for. 

The contents of his upper cabinets rarely see the light of day, and rooting through them completely absorbs his attention. _Why had he ever thought he needed a Costco sized flat of canned chili?_ He’s just wrapping his hand around the jar of Nutella (well concealed behind the veritable wall of chili) when he hears a perfunctory knock on the door.

He freezes, then scrambles for his crutches. In his rush, they’re knocked to the ground in an uncoordinated scramble. The resulting crash echoes through the house and before Steve knows it, Bucky’s in the kitchen with a worried expression on his face. That expression eases as soon as he sees Steve, uninjured, clutching a jar of Nutella, and crouched on the counter like a particularly guilty incarnation of Gollum. 

Steve mentally reviews his options for how to proceed. Bucky tends to be pretty easy going, but Steve seriously doubts that he’s going to be able to offer a compelling reason for why he absolutely needed to be up on the counter less than 72 hours after spraining his ankle badly enough to necessitate Bucky carrying him down a mountain.

Deliberation over, he decides that the best defense is a quick offense, so he tries to jump in before Bucky can scold him. Rather than draw more attention to his presence on the counter, he registers his general complaints at large. 

“I’m sick and tired of lying around!! My ankle is starting to feel better, I’m bored and I...need...to be up! I’m busy, I have...” and he waves his free hand around vaguely “...stuff to do.”

He trails off lamely. Both of his jobs are completely sedentary, his house is as immaculate as ever, and in a coordinated effort that is total overkill, Bucky, Al, and Natasha have dropped off enough food and assorted supplies that he probably won’t need to go shopping for the next month. (He does think maybe all three of them have forgotten about their Amazon overlords in their zealousness...but, friendship, and love, and all that.)

The longer Steve spends on his counter, the more foolish he’s beginning to feel. He’s really struggling to characterize Nutella hunting as an essential task even in his own head, and he’d meant to get dressed before Bucky arrived. Instead he’s on his kitchen counter in old shorts that are far too short and an American flag bedecked tank-top, hair unbrushed and glasses askew. 

Ugh, he's gonna have to sanitize the counter later. 

Bucky looks surprised. “Who said you should lie around? That’s why I left you crutches. You really should be moving around, as much as you can stand. It’s just the first day or so you want to keep off it.”

Self righteous rant completely derailed, Steve stares at Bucky for a minute longer and then decides he’s fucked anyway. Nutella firmly in hand, he scoots himself towards the edge, preparing to jump down. Bucky beats him to it, wrapping an arm around his waist and placing him on his feet with a little grunt of effort. Steve does not find this romantic _at all_, and he accepts the kiss Bucky plants on his forehead with lofty dignity. It’s that, or swoon like a heroine in an old-fashioned bodice ripper. 

Bucky’s comfortable with Steve’s body in a way that is completely alien to him. He touches him gently and often, easily as breathing, and all the more maddening when it’s absentminded, unintentional like this afternoon. It’s like sliding into a hot bath and forgetting to wear pants to work. It makes him want to nap in the sun and run screaming down the street and pull Bucky into him and around him. 

Bucky’s touch is comfort and twisting need and hot, squirming embarrassment. It’s not that Steve doesn’t like the easy affection; he really, _really does_. But he's also not used to dating someone whose personal bubble seems to extend two inches into their skin. 

And, when Bucky _is_ intentional about touching Steve? Well…that’s enough to get his face turning red, flush moving slowly from his neck to his cheeks, and burning his ears. 

Bucky is at least pretending to be unbothered by Steve’s physical antics, busy retrieving the crutches and rummaging around in the drawers, emerging with a spoon. Handing over a single crutch, he raises an eyebrow at the jar Steve’s clutching in a death grip. Steve stares back. He’s newly aware of the redness of his face, but he refuses to look away, pretending to be stoic and not at all thinking about Bucky shirtless with his hand on Steve’s dick. Bucky grins at him, spoon in hand and blissfully unaware of Steve’s messy internal ruminations. 

“Hey, clearly you’ve got an important appointment scheduled with Nutella here. Maybe you can pencil me in later?” 

And then he tucks the spoon in Steve’s pocket so he doesn’t have to relinquish the Nutella and Steve figures his dignity is a distant memory at this point, so he stumps his way into the living room and collapses dramatically on the couch. 

Bucky follows him, and Steve shortly finds himself with his heel propped on Bucky’s thigh, while he eats Nutella straight from the jar. Tired of fussing or not, it’s the height of self-indulgence and he enjoys it while Bucky unwraps his ankle and runs his hands over it with brisk efficiency. 

He enjoys it less when Bucky decides his ankle is ready for exercises, and the jar of chocolatey-hazelnut goodness is plucked from his hands only to be replaced with an obnoxiously bright elastic band. An hour later, he’s mildly grumpy; he’s been gently but inexorably bullied into pointing his toes, writing the alphabet, and performing other random stretches and movements. Steve was wrong; Bucky is not easy going, he’s terrible. Collapsing on the couch, Steve groans, 

“You’re a _monster_, I can’t believe people pay you for this.” Bucky snorts. 

“Oh, that’s real nice, I’m working for free here. You wanna let this ankle stiffen up, go right ahead. I don’t care if you ever want to hike active volcanoes again.” 

Relenting and joining Steve on the couch, Bucky pokes at his thigh. “Gimme that foot.” 

Steve obeys, wiggling around until he’s comfortable, foot secure in Bucky’s lap and head propped on the arm rest. Bucky’s hands are warm and strong and he moves them over Steve’s leg unhurriedly, pressing into the tender muscles in the bottom of his foot and at the front of his shin. His brows are furrowed, neat lines etched across his forehead, focused on finding every bit of muscle tension hiding in Steve’s leg. 

Steve wants to reach out, smooth out all the little signs of wear off Bucky’s face. Then, Bucky digs his thumbs into his calf, dragging them slowly upwards and the resulting sensation is intense, painful and good in equal measures, dragging an unexpected groan from Steve’s throat. Bucky doesn’t laugh at him, but he does smile, soft and pleased and he gradually eases up as Steve goes gooey, melting around the edges. 

Bucky eventually switches legs after a while, working his way from foot to ankle to calf. When warm hands rest over his knees and squeeze gently, Steve realizes he’s become one with the couch, head tilted back, eyes shut, abandoned leg hanging limply off the edge. 

With great effort, Steve manages to peel his eyelids open, and his breath catches in his throat. Bucky looks so good to him; kneeling between Steve’s sprawled legs, head bowed with dark strands of hair obscuring his face. His voice is husky, a little choked. 

“Steve, this okay?” And as he asks, his hands move upward, and then hesitate, waiting for an answer. 

Steve can’t speak; he nods, once, and then again when Bucky glances up at him. Bucky’s flushed and pink, eyes bright against his pale blue scrubs, and as he slowly runs his hands up Steve’s thighs, neither of them can continue to pretend that there is anything remotely therapeutic going on. 

Delicately, Bucky slips his fingers under the hem of Steve’s shorts, pauses again, and then inches higher, bit by bit. His progress is agonizing, torturously slow, and when Steve finally feels Bucky’s calloused fingertips drag over his hips, a helpless little noise escapes his throat. He buries his fingers into Bucky’s hair, tries to tug him upwards, suddenly desperate to feel Bucky’s mouth against his own.

Bucky resists for a second, nudging his face into the crease of Steve’s hip, pressing a kiss over his hip bone, but then he gives in, crawling the rest of the way up Steve’s body. He holds himself suspended for a minute, and then, when Steve pulls at him again, impatient, he collapses dramatically. Squashed under Bucky, Steve squeaks and then wiggles under him, undignified and frantic.

Mood broken, Bucky laughs, rubbing his face into Steve’s neck and then depositing wet, messy kisses from collarbone to chin. Steve flails at him, giggling and helpless. His words come out in gasps, 

“You...are a...MONSTER...”

Bucky relents, drops a delicate kiss, feather light on Steve’s throat, then another one, working his way back down to bite at his collarbone, sharp and sweet. 

“I’m your monster through.” 

And now his voice is rough, and it grates along Steve’s nerves, leaving him shuddering and ragged edged and helpless to do anything but wrap his arms around Bucky, hold on tight. As their mouths meet, lips sliding together, all of Steve’s jagged bits come together in a swooping thrill in his guts. 

Bucky’s skin is hot under the thin cotton of his scrubs, and the feel of it against him, under his hands heats Steve right up. He arches under Bucky, tilts his head to kiss the underside of his jaw. 

And suddenly, it’s too much, tips over into too much sensation and the thrill is running into nausea and now he’s pushing at Bucky for real and panting, 

“Buck, Bucky, let me up.” 

Bucky hears the frantic note in his voice, pulls back so fast he nearly gets whiplash, and his eyes are worried.

“Steve?” 

“Um...it’s okay...just a-” He laughs, shaky, “A little too much?” 

“Aw, Stevie, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to crowd you.” Bucky smooths his thumb along Steve’s collarbone, soothing, and then smoothly extricates himself, retreating to the other end of the couch.

“Nah, it’s okay, just needed a minute.” And Steve’s not lying; his heart is still racing, but the nausea is gone, leaving embarrassment in its place. He firmly tamps that down in favor of chasing Bucky, climbing over him and into his lap, pressing him back into the couch cushions and searching for the soft spot under his jaw guaranteed to make him gasp.

Bucky grips Steve’s hips, holds them firmly “Whoa, hey, let’s take it easy, okay?” 

Steve hmphs into Bucky’s neck.“Seriously, I’m _fine_.”

“Well, maybe _I’m_ not.” 

Ice trails down Steve’s spine, and he pulls back. _Fuck he’s such an asshole, throwing himself at Bucky like some kind of sex crazed buffoon._

“Oh...fuck, sorry...I didn’t mean to...I know I can be a lot.” His voice is small and he hates the sound of it, shaky and weak. 

Bucky sighs and then Steve feels a gentle tug at his head, Bucky running the messy strands through his fingers. He wraps his other arm loosely around Steve’s waist, and Steve touches one of the bright stars on his forearm, then another, fingers hesitant. He wonders how many there are; the sleeve goes all the way up over his shoulder, runs partially over his chest and shoulder blade. He wonders if Bucky knows. Has he counted them? Or did he ask for a sleeve with, hell, seventeen stars? Steve has no idea what the process is, he likes looking at Bucky’s tattoos, but the idea of getting one himself is supremely unappealing. 

“I was like, 90% fucking with you, Stevie, but it’s true we don’t gotta rush, _I_ don’t want to be rushed and then wonder if you were fine or not, okay?” 

Bucky tightens his arm around Steve’s waist. “So, uh, I’m fine, you’re fine, wanna make out?” 

Steve snorts. He’s relieved, but also, come on, way to give a guy a heart attack after all the...everything Bucky’s been through. 

“Uh, no, Bucky, I do _not_ want to make out with you.”

He does actually want to make out, but he also has standards, so he gets his hands under Bucky’s shirt, runs his fingers up and down his ribs and into his armpits. It takes Bucky a few seconds to realize what he’s up to, but then he immediately tries to fling himself backwards and away, bridging his hips up in a futile effort to escape. 

Tickling Bucky is a risky maneuver, one with a high likelihood of a black eye or other injury from the resultant flailing. And, Steve tries to be mindful of not getting Bucky too worked up. He has some vague idea that tickling was classified as torture at some point and would really prefer not to cross that line. 

But, from his current position on Bucky’s lap, he definitely has the tactical advantage, and sufficient leverage to control the outcome, so he keeps it up, until Bucky starts to get breathless with laughter. 

“Nooo….stop, Steve, please…come on...”

“Jerks get no mercy!” Bucky’s a little damp and flushed under him, skin salty when Steve relents, drops one kiss and then another on his throat, lets Bucky kiss him back and nip at his ear. Steve loses track of the time as they exchange lazy kisses and soft caresses, Bucky gradually sinking back onto the cushions, Steve stretching out on top of him. The frantic urgency of earlier has dissipated, and the pleasure that rolls through Steve now is slower, softer, undemanding. 

Suddenly, Steve remembers he had an actual mission for today and with a forcible effort, he yanks his brain off its one track focus on the feel of Bucky’s chest under his hands.

“Hey!! Will you go to Nat’s dance performance with me? It’s in a few weeks.”

Bucky had been busily engaged in walking his fingers up Steve’s spine, smoothing each vertebrae while nuzzling his nose into Steve’s neck, breath hot over his collarbone. At Steve’s question, he stops, hands sliding down and wrapping around Steve’s waist. 

“Are you...asking me out on an actual date? Like, dressing up, no Pokémon, no...nature?”

Steve rewinds the last few months. They’ve spent a lot of time together, but somehow skipped over anything that might be classified as a traditional date. Huh. 

“Don’t worry, we can play Pokémon on our way there. And after!” 

“Yeah, okay, as long as there’s that.” He smiles at Steve, gently runs a hand back up his back. “Seriously, I’d love to, don’t need to promise me Pokémon to spend time with you.”

Steve’s pleased and a little embarrassed, and mutters his thanks to Bucky’s chest, resisting the urge to butt his head cat-like, rub his nose into dark curly hair peeking out from the neckline of his scrubs. A thought strikes him. 

“Oh my God, Bucky, do you walk around the hospital with your chest hair just out??”

“What the fuck, Steve, have you literally ever seen me after work with that happening? It’s you, you stretched it all out of shape.”

And Bucky tries to yank his scrub top up higher, but Steve gives into his urges, rubbing his nose into the hair, and then resting his cheek against his chest. Bucky gives up, starts stroking his hair, smooth and slow. Steve fully intends to get up in a minute, figure out dinner and if Bucky is staying or going for that, but his eyelids are so heavy, and he’s in one of his favorite places.

“Steve, you falling asleep there?”

“Mmm just resting my eyes.” 

“Yeah, that’s what my mom always says.”

He drifts off a couple minutes later, Bucky’s steady heartbeat and slow, regular breaths soothing under his ear. 

When Steve wakes up, he’s hot and sweaty. He’d shifted off to the side in his sleep, and is plastered against Bucky’s back. Bucky himself is squashed into the back of the couch, his snores muffled by the cushions. The daylight is gone, the living room dark and shadowed and and after a brief moment of disorientation, Steve gets himself free of Bucky and limps to the bathroom to take a piss. After, he tries to shake Bucky awake, gently at first and then with increasing vigor until he finally snorts awake, limbs flailing.

He’s wedged himself completely into the gap between the cushions and the back of the couch, and Steve can’t help but laugh as Bucky struggles his way out. His scrubs are rumpled and his face pink, sleepy with confusion and criss-crossed with creases from the couch. He looks sweet, and young, and Steve wants to keep him close, tuck him into the soft bit of his heart that says _Bucky Bucky Bucky_ like a kid high on Pixie sticks. 

Instead, he pulls him from the couch and sends him home, kissing him goodbye at the door. His hands don’t get the memo and they twine eagerly into Bucky’s hair, pulling away reluctantly. Bucky hesitates for a minute before going out the door, an unasked question in his eyes, and Steve wants to answer, wants to take him down the hall and into bed, ask him to stay the night (_or forever_). 

But...he just...can’t, and instead he kisses him once more, a quick peck on the cheek and an awkward wave goodbye. 

After, Steve finds a sheet of the exercises they did on the kitchen counter. The little cartoons Bucky has drawn of Steve are not flattering, but Steve still carefully fixes it on the front of the fridge so he won’t forget to do them. Not that he thinks there is any chance that Bucky won’t remind him. 

Leaning on the counter, he circles his sprained ankle, clockwise, counterclockwise. It’s a little sore, but it feels good to move it. He’s tired, that peculiar weariness that comes from doing not much of anything, but he hasn’t been sleeping well, has been totally out of sorts ever since they came back from camping, ever since he woke up, confused and reaching for his mom. 

It’d been like that, the first few months. She’d always felt just out of sight, in the next room over, or maybe working a long shift. He’d be busy, cleaning or working and would catch himself checking his phone, thinking he hadn’t heard from her in a while. Waking up was always a bad dream in slow motion, his brain taking time to fill him in _oh no buddy, this part here is the nightmare, she’s gone._

It hasn’t happened again since that first night home, but he still feels newly tender, kicked in the chest and sore with it. The emotionally intense weekend; the arguing, the sex, being cared for so gently. It’s left him cracked open, old emotions fresh and sharp and he’s just not sure what to _do_ with all of it. He’s eagerly taken Bucky’s secrets, but hasn’t shared his own, and he’s invested, he’s really fucking invested, but he’s also…scared; emotionally overwhelmed. 

He sanitizes his counter, slowly and methodically. It’s soothing, the movements of his hands hypnotic, as practiced and smooth as Bucky’s had been on his body earlier. His ankle is throbbing by the time he’s done, and it’s enough of a distraction from his internal ruminations for him to fall asleep.

The year continues to slip away, October turning to November, the crisp red and gold leaves moldering in soggy wet piles, and Natasha’s dance performance rapidly approaching.

Steve’s had some time to consider his invitation to Bucky, enough time to be aware that he’s invited Bucky out without having much information on exactly what kind of performance it’s going to be. He’s seen Natasha in a few different modern dance performances, and they have run a real gamut, from exciting to dead boring and all the way to nightmare inducing. So, he’s hopeful it won’t be too strange; however, when he meets up with Natasha one morning, she’s not exactly reassuring. 

It’s a foggy morning, damp and grey. They’d planned to have coffee and go for a walk before they both have to work. Natasha is attired appropriately, hands cozy in soft red gloves, hair tucked into a hat, and feet dry in rainboots.

Steve is...not. He’d woken up late, Natasha pounding on his front door before blowing in, mochas in hand. She’d caught him tumbled out of bed, half into his jeans and fuzzy brained. He’d scrambled around under her disapproving gaze, unable to find his boots or a pair of matching socks, or hell, any socks at all, matching or not. He’d finally given up when she made it clear she would not be handing over a coffee until he got his ass out the door.

So, now he’s sloshing through puddles, feet cold and wet in his Crocks, the damp slowly spreading up his jeans. The hood of his sweatshirt is not doing anything to shield his glasses, which have been damp from the mist or fogged up from his body heat pretty much since he stepped out the door. After wiping them off for the umpteenth time, he gives up and shoves them in his pocket, confident he can avoid cars and that Natasha will protect him from anything smaller. 

Despite the unceremonious start to his day, he’s in a good mood. His mocha is delicious, and he’s gonna be wet no matter what, so he’s making an extra effort to splash Natasah with each new puddle. Without his glasses, the world is a water-colored wash, amorphous shades of green and grey and brown.

“Don’t let me run into any trees, okay?”

“Steve, if you somehow find a tree _and_ run into it on this path, you absolutely deserve what you get.”

Steve can’t dispute her logic, it’s a pretty clear trail, and they’ve probably walked it a hundred times.

“Hey, how long is your show? And how…uh…modern is it? I’m bringing Bucky.”

Natasha cracks up. 

“What, really?! Why? I thought you _liked_ him!”

Steve frowns at her 

“Yes _really_, I already bought two tickets!”

“Oh, I see, so you want him to suffer with you?”

“Ugh, this is _your_ show, I’m trying to be supportive here.”

Natasha punches him lightly on the arm.

“_My_ show is totally great; you’re the one who turns into a crab when you watch modern dance. Bucky’s a nice guy, he doesn’t deserve that no matter how much I might like to watch you suffer.”

Steve grumbles a little, about that. “He agreed! He said he’d _love_ to go. And modern doesn’t make me _crabby_ I just don’t understand it. And I don’t think anyone else does either.”

“Hmmm well you also think ballet is inherently patriarchal…”

“It _is_!”

“And that jazz and lyrical is unoriginal…”

“You didn’t have to see eight different dance teams fling themselves around dramatically to Evanescence sophomore year, I know for a fact _you_ didn’t watch any of the other teams.”

“…still not clear why they let you travel with us. Is there anything you _do_ like?”

Steve slows down for a minute, thinking hard. It’s not that he _doesn’t_ like dance, but hell, he’s probably seen hundreds of dance performances, from Natasha’s debut as a sunflower at the tender age of seven, to what ended up being her no longer final performance in the corps de ballet of Swan Lake.

“Social dancing is pretty nice?”

“God, you’re thirty going on a hundred.”

“You made me learn!” 

Natasha hmmmms noncommittally and becomes very interested in something on her phone screen. After being ignored for a few minutes, Steve sloshes into a particularly large puddle, soaking his pants up to the knee and getting Natasha past her boots as well. In retaliation, she puts a wad of wet leaves down the back of his pants, which puts an effective end to their discussion of the relative merits of taking Bucky to a modern dance performance. 

Instead, they complain about the painfully slow release of the next generation of Pokemon into the wild, which lasts until Natasha catches a shiny Castform. 

“Ugh, it looks like a ballsack.” She complains.

“It’s not that bad.”

“Fine, I’ll trade it to you, it kind of looks like you anyway.”

“Hey, fuck off. I’m not wasting that much stardust on a ballsack, even one with my face on it. Just transfer it if you don’t want it.”

Instead, Natasha names it after him in retribution, and makes it her walking buddy. Steve’s pretty sure she’s gonna send a screenshot of it to anyone they might know. He had planned to bring her flowers at her show; now he idly wonders if he can find some kind of flower she’s mildly allergic to, something that will make her sneeze a lot or give her embarrassing but not dangerous hives. 

On the day of Nat’s show, Steve inspects himself closely in the mirror, pretty satisfied with what he sees. He’d gotten his hair trimmed, and that hadn’t turned out too badly, and now, it’s as tidy as he can make it. His dress shoes are scuff free, laced up and tied neatly. His outfit had been more challenging, but he’d arrived at it mostly via a process of elimination.

He’d started out in his only suit, which had made him look like a particularly ill-tempered maître d’ possessed of an iron with a serious grudge. He’d tried the jacket over jeans and t-shirt, with the vague feeling he’d seen guys around in similar outfits. He’s not sure what was wrong, but the result was definitely not right. He scrapped the dress pants as well, suspecting they’re on the wrong side of too tight and too short. 

He’d ended up in his newest jeans, only a little faded from washing, and better fitting than most of his other pants. His sweater is nice; pale blue and soft. He’d tried a collared shirt under it, but had promptly ripped it off, feeling instantly overheated and kind of pretentious. He suspects he’ll look a little boring in contrast to the typical dance crowd, but, well, his main job is to not embarrass Natasha too much, and to be a good date to Bucky, and none of that precludes making astonishing styling choices. 

He frowns, leaning in closer to the mirror and pulling off his glasses. His skin looks worn, and he’s got purple smudged below his eyes. His sleep has been shit lately, never more than a few hours before he’s awake again. And, while he’s been working a lot and writing like crazy, nothing he has produced has been particularly...happy.

He’s been trucking along on his scientist hires-insults-lusts for artist story, and honestly, he’s not sure how he’ll ever dig his way out of the angst he’s buried poor Bruce and Tony in. Tony is, frankly, kind of a dick, and recently set fire to all of Bruce’s drawings in a misguided attempt to extend his contract (and thereby making them work together longer). Steve personally doesn’t think he’d forgive anyone willfully trashing his work, romantic motivations or not, but Bruce so far seems to be a better (or at least more patient) man than him.

Steve also hasn’t seen much of Bucky lately. He’s been working more too, picking up extra shifts at the hospital, and Steve feels like they’ve been in a bit of a holding pattern, coming together long enough for a short date before one of them has to rush home or to work.

Early on, Steve worried that Bucky would never let him in, but now, each time Bucky kisses him goodbye, or grabs his hand, or lets his nerves show about an upcoming doctor’s appointment, Steve feels like he’s the one holding back. But, he’s feeling good about tonight. They’re going on a real date, and he thinks they’ll have fun together. He’s had time to think these past few weeks, time to realize that he’s gotta move past his own issues if he wants to keep moving forward with Bucky. Which. He’s going to try his damnedest to do. 

And, if he has to be honest with himself, he’s excited to see Nat dance again, now that he’s (kind of) come to terms with his resentment over being expected to toe the line and keep his complaints to himself. 

Popping his glasses back on, Steve looks over his bedroom, dismayed at what he sees. He’s completely trashed it. Every item of clothing that could be remotely construed as dressy had been yanked out of his closet, tried on, and then discarded, strewn over the floor and his bed. Dresser drawers are standing open, jeans and t-shirts hanging over the edges. The mess crawls up his spine, but it’s beyond past time to leave to pick up Bucky. Sighing, he tries to poke a drawer closed with a finger, winces when it stubbornly refuses to move, wadded up jeans in the way. He settles on gathering up all the clothes, dumping them in a pile on the bed to be dealt with later. 

Jacket in hand, he locks up the house, hops in the van, and immediately hits traffic. By the time he pulls up around the back of Al’s house, Steve’s tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. Bucky rushes out almost immediately, expression harried. Instead of getting in, he comes around, taps on the driver’s window. He’s brandishing a lint roller. Steve lowers the window. 

“Hey! Stevie, I need you to roll me. Herman got into my closet, and then he tagged me again before I got out the door.”

Steve mentally rolls his eyes while he turns the van off. There’s enough residual cat hair on Bucky’s couch, bed, and carpet that he’s pretty damn sure that anything Bucky wears inside longer than five minutes would be covered, regardless of any malicious activity on Herman’s part. Getting out, he patiently runs the lint roller up and down Bucky’s legs and over his shoulders. He has to tear multiple sheets off as they fill with hair. 

If he and Bucky ever live together, he wonders if Bucky will object to shaving Herman to cut down on the shedding. Probably Herman will object. Or...can you vacuum cats? It seems like it could work out, if you used the hose attachment. And Herman is pretty chill. He cuts off that train of thought when he realizes he’s lint rolled Bucky’s left thigh about eight times. 

“Bucky, I gotta tell you, I think you’re unfairly maligning Herman here. He can’t run the vacuum, he doesn’t have thumbs. There is no way all this hair came from a single drive by.” Bucky extends his middle finger in Steve’s general direction but makes no comment to defend his half-assed housekeeping. Steve takes his time with making sure there is not one stray hair on the fabric covering Bucky’s ass. 

Bucky really does look amazing, cat hair or not. The loose gray blazer over his striped t shirt should look sloppy, but paired with his perfectly (Steve can verify just how perfectly) fitting dark slacks and shining, freshly polished boots it looks intentional, pulled together. 

Lint rolling done, Steve is immediately distracted by the sight of Bucky’s face. For once, Bucky is closely, freshly shaved, and Steve can’t help but run his fingers over his cheek, strangely soft under Steve’s fingertips. Bucky looks amused, when Steve moves on to petting his hair, which is extra shiny and also strangely soft, trapped in a complicated looking braid. 

“Better enjoy it while you can, it’ll last two hours, max.”

Steve snaps out of his blissful reverie. 

“Shit! We gotta go!”

“Remind me why we’re leaving almost two hours early for this?”

“Buck, only the incredibly foolish try to drive and park in downtown Seattle on a Saturday night. Plus we gotta park at the light rail, and that is a nightmare all its own.” 

“Um, I take the light rail almost everyday, to work. It doesn’t take that long to get there.”

“You don’t park there. And, if we’re late and embarrass Natasha, no one will ever find our bodies.”

“Ohhhh. Alright then.” 

Despite Steve’s dire predictions, they find parking almost right away. Once they’re waiting on the platform (Steve bought a single day pass, Bucky used his Orca card), they both relax, and Bucky grins at Steve. 

“I didn’t actually say hi before, sorry.”

He takes Steve’s hand, makes a show of looking Steve up and down, and Steve starts to feel warm in his sweater.

“You don’t clean up too bad, you look real nice. What kind of dancing is this going to be?” And then, he tries to twirl Steve. Steve resists for a minute, then goes along with it. There’s no one else on the platform anyway.

“Buck can you actually dance?”

“Eh, I had to learn a little for my sister’s wedding. And we did square dancing for PE in middle school!”

“That’s a special kind of hell for a twelve year old.” 

Steve adamantly does _not_ square dance, but he can waltz, and Bucky accepts Steve’s offered hand, lets Steve pull him into a closed position (a little closer than is strictly necessary). Bucky’s good at following, responds effortlessly to the gentle pressure Steve exerts through his arms, and they float through a few box steps, rotating in a tight circle on the empty platform. Bucky’s movements are graceful, easy, his calloused hand warm in Steve’s and Steve is almost a little disappointed when the train arrives and they have to hustle on and try to find seats together. 

Once they’re settled, the trip into the city goes by quickly. Bucky has been fixated on putting together a full team of perfect Machamp for raids. Steve thinks it’s a lot of effort kind of late, since none of the current bosses are weak to fighting, but Bucky hadn’t been dissuaded by his excellent arguments. 

“Steve, a Machamp is like a little black dress. It never goes out of style. And if one is good, six are better.”

“....Um, what? Bucky…that is...I don’t even know. At least add a Hariyama or two for bulk.” 

“No way, Machamp only for this team.”

Steve had given up after that, and had dutifully saved every Machop he’d found for Bucky. He’s got a shit ton by this point, and it takes most of the trip to Seattle to trade them over. On the way, he explains he has no idea what to expect from this show, and, hesitantly, shares some of his trepidations. 

“I’ve been worried about this whole thing.”

“Really? Hasn’t Natasha been dancing forever? I’m sure it’s going to go well.”

“Oh, her dancing will be fine.” And he pauses, because Natasha’s secrets aren’t his to share, but he’s also tired of carrying his worry alone. 

“She used to dance for this company that were a bunch of dickbags. It was right out of high school, and none of us knew shit about reading a contract, we were just excited she was gonna be a _real_ dancer. They ended up being real abusive assholes.”

He waves his hand. “Anyway, you’ve met Nat. She put up with it for a while, but then she walked. Um.” He coughs. “She was real dramatic about it, not only did she burn that bridge, but she laid it with explosives and then salted the earth.” 

Bucky snorts with laughter. 

“So, that was good for her mental health at least, but it killed her reputation. She couldn’t get hired anywhere. But, this new company was starting up, and their whole schtick was inclusivity, and they went crazy hiring dancers that were more diverse; body types, ethnicity, etc. It was great, they didn’t care about Nat’s body at all, and in fact, they loved that she stuck it to her old company.”

“What the fuck about her _body_, Steve, she could probably bench press me.” Bucky is visibly irritated. 

“Well yeah, that’s the point, the aesthetics _are_ changing, but not all professional companies still don’t want super buff ballerinas. And her old directors were assholes about it. Anyway, she signed a new contract, moved across the country, signed a lease, and then right before they started rehearsals, the directors sold the company. To Nat’s old company.” 

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. They fired just about everyone, or demoted them. Nat’s stuff hadn’t even arrived from being shipped when they cut her.” 

“What happened after that?” 

Steve shrugs. “Me and my mom went and got her, and she came back home, went to college. I mean, there was a lot of legal crap that dragged on, and God, the amount of money she lost was just...it was something. At the end of the day, I thought she’d be done with all the dancing shit. So...uh, this is a different situation for sure, but I’m just worried. I don’t want her hurt again.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while. He put his phone in his pocket while Steve was talking, and started playing with the sleeve of Steve’s sweater, folding and unfolding the edge. Now, he wraps his fingers around Steve’s wrist, hand looking huge.

“I dunno Stevie, you’re a good friend, but Nat obviously isn’t the kind of person to put up with shit...I think you can relax.” He laughs, dry and humorless. “I’m kind of an expert in putting up with shit, going back to bad situations, and I can say that while Nat got burned bad, it really doesn’t seem like she’s running back to that, right?”

“You’re right. She’d only go back if she could fuck them over somehow.” Steve’s surprised to realize he feels better, lighter. While Bucky hasn’t told him anything he didn’t know, it felt good to share, have his feelings validated. He twists his wrist around, twines his fingers into Bucky’s. “Hey, thanks Buck. Ooh, shit, flowers! I forgot to buy some.”

“For Nat!” He hastily corrects when Bucky points at his own chest. “Oh, hell, I’ll buy you some too.” 

They get off the train at the SoDo station, leaving them in the industrial district with several blocks to walk, and almost an hour to do it in. They take care of the flowers first, ducking into random shops and markets until Steve finds a decent looking bouquet, and then they have to backtrack to look for the venue. It’s quiet for a Saturday night, and the streets aren’t particularly well lit. Still, Bucky looks around with interest, taking in the train tracks running seemingly at random, the decrepit manufacturing plants, and warehouse after warehouse. 

“I usually get off further north, near the University of Washington.” 

“Yeah well it’s not that exciting over here, I think it’s mostly that the rent is relatively cheap. We’re looking for a building with gold eggs on top.”

They have to wander up and down some fairly questionable alleys before they find the building in question. Sure enough, five large golden eggs bedeck the top, the exterior is strung with fairy lights and a carefully decorated chalkboard welcomes them to the opening night of Three Valium and a Vodka Tonic and invites them to stay for the reception. Bucky raises an eyebrow at the show title. “Are we supposed to be entertained or fall asleep?”

Steve just shrugs. “Maybe we were supposed to pre-funk?” 

Inside, it’s clearly a warehouse turned art gallery turned performance space, with visible pipes and air ducts twisting across the high ceiling. Their voices echo, and the walls and floor have been painted solid, scarlet red without relief. The art on the walls is abstract, and Steve thinks whoever painted it must have anger issues; jagged slashes of black and white, purple and more red writhing through the harsh divide. He can see a few further away that seem softer, brighter. 

People dressed in black are rolling out and taping down a matte vinyl floor and setting out folding chairs while a purple haired woman is messing with a sound system plopped in the corner of the room. It seems like it’s on the fritz; issuing piercing shrieks or a flat monotonous female voice seemingly at random. It’s not pleasant and Steve wants to go and rip out the power cable.

Also, the chair situation is chaos in action; no one seems to have a plan regarding how many chairs should go in each row, how many rows there should be, or even in what orientation they should be to the performance space. The result so far is one very long, ragged row, bracketed by some random clusters. Steve takes a deep breath. This is not his circus, and to be fair, it could be some sort of pre-performance performance designed to incite anxiety in the attendees. If it is, it’s extremely effective. 

He’d just made up his mind to go and track down some programs, when he sees someone deposit three more chairs in a new, completely different location from the others. It’s too much, and before his brain can consult his body, he’s walking over and approaching one of the (God, hopefully unpaid) volunteers.

“Hey! Who’s in charge of you all?” The guy in question looks young, hair brown and curly; ears and eyebrows and fingers shining with silver jewelry. He looks dumbfounded at Steve’s inquiry, looks to the right and the left, but no help is forthcoming in dealing with this short blonde dude with overly aggressive body language.

“Ummm..no..one? We’re just supposed to set up the chairs?” 

“Do you have a plan?” The guy looks more confused, so Steve clarifies. “Like, where the chairs should go?”

“Yeah, out here.” His arm gesture encompases the entire room. Steve does not roll his eyes, but it takes a monumental effort.

“Okay, well, can you see that maybe the current set up is….not...optimal? Which part of the stage is front?” 

He points. 

It’s not...where the chairs are. 

Before Steve knows it, he’s directing a small army of black-clad, mildly confused volunteers. He makes Bucky stand where he wants the end of each row to be and between the two of them, they end up with a neat block of chairs, facing the stage. He belatedly realizes that this is definitely grounds to embarrass Natasha, and also not particularly fun for Bucky, but, ugh, whatever. 

He produces their tickets, and they collect programs, and go to sit in their meticulously arranged chairs. Steve doesn’t want to stare at the back of someone’s head all night, so they sit right in the front. As they get settled, he realizes that Bucky is quietly laughing at him, and also that he miscalculated because now they can’t sneakily make fun of anything weird. 

“_What._” He hisses, elbow dangerously close to Bucky’s ribs. Bucky waves a hand at him. “Oh...it’s nothing. It’s not that funny.” But, then he goes back to laughing, and Steve stares hard. 

“It’s...just...you’re such a dick. And watching you...try to ignore them...and then try to be nice but you’re just not, and they’re all meandering around, dropping chairs willy-nilly...I thought you were gonna spontaneously combust. It was _great_.” He wipes at his eyes, and Steve finally gives into the impulse he’s had since he arrived, and rolls his eyes. When Bucky manages to collect himself, they go through the program together, until the lights dim and the show starts.

As the lights come back up, Natasha is on stage, arranged in a tableau with two other women. They’re all wearing long, oversized olive colored dresses, jagged hemmed and cut low under the arms. Their movement in the silence is rhythmic, perfectly symmetrical, with their unbound hair swinging to cover their faces. Steve winces as they all turn slowly in unison, arms moving overheard. There is...a lot of sideboob happening and it does not look comfortable. Unfortunately, the repetitive female voice from earlier makes a re-appearance, and he listens to several random phrases before he realizes this thing is actually, in all seriousness, set to a robot apparently doing a reading of Gertrude Stein poetry. 

It’s...intense. 

It goes on, the dancers spiraling in close, arms and legs wrapping briefly around each other, and then disengaging, curving out to the very limits of the stage. And, the poetry goes on and on; _A is a kiss slow cheese. Put a sun in Sunday, Sunday. Powder in wails, powder in sails. Ex ex ex._

Finally, the lights slowly go out, the poetry fades away, and the last Steve can see of Natasha is another, smooth turn, arms carving through the air before they disappear completely. He steals a glance at Bucky, who seems politely interested, flowers cradled loosely in his arms while he applauds. 

The program has six pieces total, but Natasha isn’t in the next two, and so Steve doesn’t pay as much attention, tuning in long enough for brief impressions of EDM and short purple dresses, flashing lights paired with slow, crawling movements. 

He’s otherwise occupied; the audience is completely full, people standing in the back. He’d gotten warm earlier with moving the chairs, and the packed room raises the ambient temperature by several more degrees. Steve can feel sweat beading on his forehead, pooling in the small of his back, and he wishes he had worn something, anything under his sweater so he can take it off now. He’s pressed in on both sides by his seatmates; Bucky’s thigh is warm but comforting against his own, while the thigh of the random guy next to him is a hot, pin-pricking irritation. He shifts, restless, trying to push further into Bucky and buy himself some space.

The asshole next to him is oblivious, whispering under his breath to his date. Steve is desperate for intermission, thinks he might just go stand in the back, but as the third piece rolls straight into the fourth, he realizes there is no intermission, and he’s trapped until the bitter end. 

At least Nat is in the fourth piece, and she is…amazing. There are several dancers, all clad in close fitting shorts and tank tops. The music is instrumental, fast paced, the notes nearly tripping over each other. The movement is similarly frenetic. Natasha is partnered with another woman, and Steve’s mouth hangs open as they race through their duet, bodies bouncing off each other and coming back together, hanging, for a single, sustained moment before they’re off again, tumbling to the floor in a confused coordination. 

Steve forgets his discomfort, caught in the moment. He’s seen Nat dance hundreds of times, and it’s rare (has he ever?) to see her moving so freely, with utter physicality and focus. As the last notes fade, he catches himself on the edge of his seat, body tense. As she bows with her partner, he claps extra loud, and is a little embarrassed to feel tears pricking at the edges of his eyes. It seems right to see her here, moving this way, as much as he’d been opposed to it.

The rest of the show goes by in a blur. He’d settled back into his seat, and snuck his hand onto Bucky’s thigh, squeezing it gently. Bucky has ostensibly been paying attention to the show (the last piece seems to showcase every man in the company, free of body hair and clad in extremely small shorts), but he’d still put his hand absentmindedly over Steve’s. 

The reception starts right after, tables set out with small bits of hard to pronounce foods and La Croix. Steve escapes immediately for the bathroom, leaving Bucky to continue holding the flowers. It’s quiet, uncrowded in the bathroom, and after taking a piss, he splashes cold water on his face and cleans his glasses, feeling ready to face the crowd. 

He used to hate seeing Natasha socialize with potential donors at the big, fancy receptions at her prior company, seeing her smiling, laughing and flirting, only to fall apart afterwards. But, it’s clear that this isn’t that kind of an operation, if they can’t even get volunteers who know how to set up chairs. It’s honestly a fucking relief, and now he can’t even think why he’d been so worried. 

He’s heading back towards where he left Bucky, only making a short detour to grab a couple of cold cans of La Croix (_for fucks sake_) when he hears a familiar voice call his name. The floor falls out from under him as he turns slowly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pokédex](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20781254/chapters/49384613)


	6. No Shaymin Loving You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is unpleasantly confronted by his past, but he’s gotta deal with it in order to move forward with Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warning:** significant discussion of cancer, end of life decisions, grief, just lots of fucking emotions here, but there are some sweet/soft ones. 
> 
> [remiarty's](https://twitter.com/remiarty/status/1184542245388804096?s=20) last and softest art for this story appears in this chapter!

As Steve turns around, emotions crash through him. Irritation, first _because can’t he just get a break_ and that gives way quickly to nerves jangling in his belly and sending the floor bouncing under his feet, and he wants to turn and walk away. Then, shame licks up his spine and leaves him flushed because he’s had a lot of breaks and these are his friends, and _of fucking course_ they are here. He’d been an idiot to think otherwise, and what kind of jerk is he to be so actively unhappy to see friends?

But, he’s no coward, so instead of running he smiles _grimaces_ and looks around, acutely aware it’s been far too long since he’s seen these faces in person. He notices Sam first, handsome in a mauve polo shirt, biceps straining the fabric beyond reasonable measure _What on earth has he been lifting in DC_? followed shortly by _When did he come home_?, but it’s Peggy who comes in for the kill first, squeezing him tightly and pressing her red, red lips to his cheek. Her thin tie matches her lipstick and her heels are impossibly high, giving her a good three inches on him. He lets himself be held for a minute, and then gently moves her backwards - his body is giving off so much heat he’s sure her crisp blouse will wilt if it’s in contact with him for too long. 

“Sorry, I’m really sweaty.” He apologizes. She waves it off. 

“Oh, Steve, it’s been so long, I’ve...we’ve missed you…” He says something, some polite nonsense, noting that Sharon and Clint are here too; Sharon’s hair is shining and smooth, dress sleek and black. Clint looks surprisingly put together - tie and purple dress shirt unstained and only a bit rumpled. _He must be trying to impress Natasha._

He looks around, a bit desperate, trying to catch a glimpse of Natasha or Bucky, anything or anyone to detract the attention from him, but no help is forthcoming. He has belated sympathy for the volunteer he conscripted into service earlier; they’re both apparently unable to summon assistance by looking small and helpless. 

“Sam, I...uh, didn’t know you were visiting?” Sam has crossed his arms across his chest. 

“Man, I hadn’t heard from you in...well, it’s been months? I can’t remember the last time you texted me back or called. Honestly, did not know if you were even still alive.” Steve winces. Sam is one of the kindest people Steve knows, but he has zero patience for bullshit. And zero inclination to conceal Steve’s bullshit. 

“...sorry, I’ve been...working. A lot.” It’s the wrong thing to say, and he knows it right away, because Sam is frowning and his arms are relaxing, infinitesimally. 

“Are you not sleeping? You look tired.” 

And it’s exactly what he didn’t want, setting off a flurry of commentary on _You shouldn’t be alone so much_ and _We’re all worried_ and _How can we help_. 

Hot tears of fury and shame prick at his eyes because it’s everything he hates. He can’t stand their eyes on him, cataloging the changes. He’s _different_, less _fun_, the joy ironed out of him and anger and apathy taking their turns with him. He can’t even pretend, because he doesn’t remember what he was like before and faced with all of them, he’s newly, acutely aware of it every fucking time. 

Sam’s trying to talk him into coming to DC for a visit, and Sharon and Peggy are comparing calendars, figuring out a night for dinner or drinks and he is being crushed under their concern. 

“Guys, I’m _fine_, don’t worry.” 

Clint of all people comes to his rescue. “He’s totally fine, he sees Natasha all the time. She’d tattle if he was about to lose it more than usual.”

_Oh, thanks Clint, that was...not a rescue. And kind of rude._ Everyone looks hurt and Steve is beginning to feel dizzy and he’s sweating again for real. Are they dimming the stage lights again? He tries to think of something, anything, saying the first absurd thing to pop into his head.

“Hey, uh, anyone still playing PoGo? I’ve been looking for a golden Magikarp forever, anyone have an extra one?”

Clint maybe is trying to help him, because he actually answers. 

“Aww, no man, Nat said you were looking, I don’t have one either.” 

And then there’s a bit of a blessed silence while Sam realizes he uninstalled the app, and both Peggy and Sharon have to update before they can open it and check their inventories. Steve still doesn’t feel right, but he takes the moment to breathe, try to chill out a little. 

Suddenly, he feels a hand on his back, and then Bucky is beside him, Natasha right behind him. She’s greeted with cheerful shouts of congratulations, and allows herself to be passed around, accepting hugs and kisses with calm reserve. She looks beautiful, face freshly scrubbed, scarlet red lips the only remaining sign of her stage makeup. (And her eyebrows, Steve would know it was truly end times if Natasha went anywhere without putting her eyebrows on.) 

Her hair, freed from the severe braid of her last performance, is particularly wild, and Steve realizes she’d dyed some of it, little streaks of blonde here and there. Bucky had apparently given her the flowers, because she’s cradling them, the purple and orange blooms vivid against the graphic black and white of her short dress. Her legs are bare, feet in black sneakers. Suddenly, she’s in front of him, and she hugs him, quick and hard, crushing the flowers between them. She smells like clean sweat and cold cream.

She whispers in his ear “Thanks for coming” and he whispers back, lips numb, words tumbling out on autopilot “Did you bring a coat? You’re gonna freeze.” She pushes him away, gentler than usual. “Clint’s giving me a ride.” She nods at Bucky, a smile around the edge of her lips, and then she’s gone, presumably off to schmooze. 

He tries to look after her, but his head feels heavy, slow. Bucky’s hand is still resting on his back, and he focuses on that, a warm, firm point of contact. He’s aware that everyone is looking inquisitively at Bucky, who is looking back, smiling politely as he takes in this random group of people he does not know. He thinks he should introduce Bucky, but he feels a hundred miles away and he’s not sure why they keep turning the lights down. 

Bucky glances at Steve, brow furrowed. He seems to realize that Steve is in no state to manage social niceties. Unthrown (the man did meet his roommate in a grocery store, after all), he waves to the group at large. “Hey all, I’m Bucky…” And then Steve’s brain comes back online in a rush and he realizes he’s being rude, and now he’s being even more rude by talking over Bucky, but the words are coming out in a rush and he can’t stop them. 

“Everyone, this...this is Bucky! My boyfriend.” And then he gestures with his hands, indicating Bucky like he’s Vanna fucking White presenting a particularly sought after vowel.

It’s awful, and he realizes that they haven’t really had a boyfriend talk, and that he just interrupted Bucky who was doing a _fine_ job of introducing himself. And now everyone is staring at him. Peggy recovers first. 

“Oh! It’s so nice to meet you Bucky. I haven’t seen Steve in so long, I didn’t realize he’d met someone.” And now she’s looking around, like maybe she’s been left out of the joke, but seems to realize that everyone is just as surprised as her. 

It’s like a horrible romance, the Captain’s Secret Lover, but instead it’s Steve and his hidden boyfriend, and instead of a secret amnesia baby, they have a fat tuxedo cat and everyone is talking all at the same time. 

It seems like that is all Steve’s brain had to offer in terms of productive output, because it’s offline again, and the dizziness is back. It’s coming in long, slow waves that send him spinning around and then set him back on his feet, slightly at an angle to the rest of the room. Bucky is holding his own, he’s shaken hands and seems to be talking to Sam about something, both of them animated and enthusiastic. _They had both lived in DC, had they known each other…?_

But Peggy is still trying to talk to him, and he’s only catching one in every three words, the spins sending her voice away and then bringing it back. But, he hears enough.

“Oh, your mom...so happy...”

Steve can’t stop himself, “Well, we don’t fucking know that, do we?” And his voice is horribly loud and clear, present in a way that none of this encounter has been so far and everyone stops. Peggy has a shocked expression on her pretty face, dark winged brows pressed together and mouth open. 

Steve closes his eyes. He knows he’s a fuck up, should apologize or make light, but he can’t because it’s struck a nerve, one that’s been thrumming through him for weeks now.

Because sure, he’s really fond of Bucky. He’s falling for him, has been falling for him, wants to twine their lives together until they don’t remember where Steve leaves off and Bucky begins. 

But it’s killing him that Bucky will never know his mom. Never hear her gentle, snorting laugh, or be quietly amused with him about her silly sweaters and seasonal earrings and always carefully matching socks. Steve will never have to warn him about accidentally triggering her anti-vaxxer rants and disdain for people who skip flu shots. Hell, Bucky would have probably been an enthusiastic participant with her. 

Bucky will never know that Steve gets his blue eyes and stubborn chin and poor eyesight from her, and he’ll never get to hear Sarah Rogers wax lyrical about Steve’s cranky disposition and questionable humor and bony angles that are just like his father’s.

And, Steve’s mom will never know that Steve found someone; someone who seems to like all of him, someone endlessly patient, the smooth to Steve’s rough and the sweet to his salt. 

It’s killing him. Because he’d been living day by day, but since he met Bucky, he’s started to look to the future again. His heart aside (which is always like, eight steps ahead and cares nothing for practicality) he can see a life with Bucky. One where they maybe get married and figure out kids someday, but even if that happens, those fucking kids will never know their grandmother. 

So, yeah. His mom would probably be real happy. She’d love Bucky. How could she not? But Steve will never have the mingled joy-terror of introducing them. 

He opens his eyes, ready to find an apology somewhere, but the room is still spinning and he’s so hot, nausea curling through him in a slow, smooth wave and he closes them again, but...they must not have opened at all, because it’s still dark. His body is moving of its own volition, one foot in front of the other, and he doesn’t know anything except that he has to move. 

He comes back to himself when he starts shivering, teeth chattering and fingers numb. He’s sitting on a damp bench, one of the city’s many attempts at an urban park space. There are a few sad looking trees, and the single street light is flickering, on a few seconds, then off. A cluster of opportunistic moths crowd it, little shadows in the circle of light. 

He fumbles in his pocket, pulls out his phone. He has...several missed calls. He ignores them all in favor of pulling up Google maps. After screenshotting his location, he texts it to Bucky. 

Come get me?

His phone buzzes a minute later. 

omw

He’s cold, and he pulls his knees up to his chest, tucks his fingers into his armpits. His sweat is cold and he wrinkles his nose in disgust. 

Bucky’s there in a few minutes or maybe longer, time is still not moving in a linear fashion for Steve’s fuzzy brain. When he looks up, it’s like a punch in his gut. Bucky is so handsome, even in the shadows and his kind expression is like balm over his raw skin. He thought he’d be mad, and maybe he is, but he’s hiding it at least for now. 

Bucky pauses, and eyes the bench Steve is camped out on.

“Hmm, that’s...not at all creepy.” 

The seat portion that Steve is perched on is normal enough, but the legs are human hands, emerging from the concrete and grasping the edges like they’re trying to pull it into hell. Or maybe Ikea. 

“Huh, I hadn’t noticed it.” 

Bucky’s got Steve’s jacket with him, and he drapes it over his shoulders before sitting close and lifting his arm in a silent invitation. Steve leans in, slowly. He feels like he’s a hundred years old, all the frantic energy of earlier blown out.

Bucky’s arm is warm around him, and he lets Steve be for a bit. Steve’s pretty sure he can’t get away from this without a conversation though, and well. He’s wanted to talk to Bucky. This isn’t how he wanted to do it, but he’s getting used to suboptimal execution as a way of life, particularly when it comes to his interpersonal relationships. 

At the rate he’s going, he’ll probably propose to Bucky in the middle of an alien attack while they’re on vacation.

“So, I gotta ask...I don’t want to be a dick, and I kind of think I know the answer but...let’s just be on the same page. You aren’t embarrassed by me, are you? I mean, I kind of hoped you had friends, and just didn’t talk about them much, but I just figured...hmm, I don’t know, I guess I didn’t really think about it.” Bucky laughs, short and sharp. It doesn’t sound nice. “I sure didn’t think I’d meet them all tonight, and that they had no idea I existed.”

Steve feels awful, but it’s like everything else tonight, distant. He talks into Bucky’s shoulder.

“‘M not embarrassed. Just…” He thinks about it for a minute.

“You know how you said you’re...different after the stroke?” Bucky nods.

“Well, I’m different too, have been different since my mom died. I like that you didn't know me before.” He sighs, looking for the right words.

“I love them, and I miss them. But when I’m around them…I can’t stand myself and I get...all messed up. Mad and sad and really frustrated.” 

“Have you talked to any of them about how you feel?”

“....kinda?...not really.”

“Hmmmm.” 

Steve rocks into Bucky’s side. “Don’t hmmmm me.” 

“Hmm, okay.” 

“Ugh.” 

“Yeah, ugh is right. Can we maybe not sit on this creepy bench anymore? You’re shivering, let’s get some food.”

Bucky doesn’t let Steve get far from him, keeps his arm tucked close around him. Steve follows, meek, until they arrive at their destination and he recoils at the sight of the bright, lit up blue sign.

He tugs at Bucky’s arm. "Ugh, Bucky, it's an IHOP, we can go to…” But Bucky apparently can see where Steve is coming from a mile away, and he’s not interested in entertaining it.

“I don’t care if it’s a fucking chain, let’s just have some pancakes, okay? You need food, you’re still cold, and I’m not gonna wander this city for another 45 minutes to find some local hole in the wall that’s actually open and still serving.”

Steve realizes his hands are shaking, and that Bucky’s right. He snorts. “Tell me how you really feel about it.” 

But, he lets himself be led into the restaurant, where they are seated by a middle-aged woman who looks aggressively ready to derail any bullshit that may dare to raise its head in her diner. 

Before they can order, Steve escapes to the bathroom, only pausing to mutter to Bucky “Blueberry pancakes, please.”

In the bathroom he pees, then looks in the mirror. He looks like hell, eyes red and swollen, skin pale and bluish. After he washes his hands, he’s momentarily fascinated by the fine tremor running through his fingers that makes grabbing a paper towel particularly difficult. 

Suddenly, it’s too much, the room too hot, the walls too close. He leans forward, rests his head on the paper towel dispenser, ignoring his inner voice screaming about the bacteria that lives in a public restroom. The paper towel gently trembles in his nerveless fingers, and the water on his hands soaks the towel, drop by drop. 

Closing his eyes, he breathes deeply, the metal a cool point on his forehead. He imagines the chilled metal spreading, covering his head, running down his neck and wrapping around his torso. It comforts him, and after a few minutes, he can push himself back up, dry his hands and leave. 

He comes back to blueberry pancakes, coffee, and a huge glass of orange juice that Bucky shoves at him as soon as he sits down. He realizes that Bucky thinks he has low blood sugar (he probably does), and obliges him by drinking it down. The juice is shockingly sweet and thick on his tongue, and clears his head the rest of the way. He digs into his pancakes next, startled to realize he’s ravenous. He eats steadily, while Bucky picks at his plate, eggs and bacon and toast. Bucky eats toast all wrong, eating the crusts off, leaving the good parts. 

Finally, he pushes his plate back, grabs his coffee and looks at Bucky. 

“Sorry.”

“Sorry you had a panic attack, or sorry you abandoned me with your friends, or sorry that you didn’t tell them about me?”

“Um, all of the above?”

“Stevie, you got nothing to be sorry for. I was a little uncomfortable, and I was a lot worried when you took off, but…” He shrugs, “We don’t always get a lot of control over what our bodies do, or how our emotions come out. I’m glad you’re okay.” 

Steve’s still hungry, and after he eyes Bucky’s plate a few times, Bucky pushes it over to him, and Steve goes for the bacon while Bucky fusses with his coffee cup. 

After he finishes the bacon, he sits up straight, holds his coffee cup tightly between his hands to hide the slight tremor that has come back. He feels almost formal when he says,

“My mom died almost two years ago, from lung cancer.” Bucky looks up from his coffee. His eyes are steady on Steve’s, compassionate and not at all demanding. 

“Wanna tell me about it?” And Steve finds that yes, he does want to tell Bucky. So, he does, and it feels like he’s lancing a wound, something deep running and purulent. 

He tells him about how she was diagnosed, how she’d been tired all the time and coughing. How she’d always been round and soft, but had gotten thinner and thinner, until, finally, a doctor, not the first, but the fourth, had put the pieces together, ordered the right tests, and then they’d been talking about chemo and radiation and quality of life.

“It was okay, at first. She went to chemo, and radiation and the first round went well. But..” And he closes his eyes, because there’s a lot about this that still fucks him up, but this...had been the first really awful part. 

“She ‘graduated’, and they gave her this little certificate, and had a party at the treatment center. And I don’t know, she probably knew this, but she was secretive as fuck, didn’t ever want me to worry. But, the kind of cancer she had, it usually comes back worse after its first round of treatment.

“And that pisses me off, because maybe, I’m pretty sure, I was the only dumbass there who didn’t realize we’d be back in three months, all excited we’d made it through. And then I think, what if Mom didn’t know, and then she was back in three months?” He flexes his fingers. “Either way, I’m still pissed, get mad all over again every time I think about it.

“And, it did come back worse. They couldn't operate on it, and nothing they could do stopped it, or even made her comfortable.” 

Steve gives up on his coffee, and starts shredding the napkins. One long strip, then another, then another, until he has a pile of them, stacked lengthwise. “You can stop me, if this is too awful. It is awful. I hate thinking about it.” 

“Steve, you don’t gotta…” 

“I want to. Um, I took care of her. I took a leave at my job. I...did tech stuff full time, then. I hated my job, but I was so focused on making enough money. We were always broke growing up, I wanted enough for us to both be comfortable. She always worked so hard, took really shitty shifts at the hospital.” 

He’s going down a rabbit hole, so he takes a deep breath, and centers himself, because this is the hard part. 

“I’m mad at her, still. Even though I know it’s wrong, and kind of sick to be mad at your dead mom? But, she was a nurse, she knew about end of life stuff, power of attorney, etc. But, I guess it’s different when it’s you. Anyway, I had her medical power of attorney, but she didn’t make any decisions about resuscitation or end of life care, or really, anything. And I didn’t know she didn’t do that, because she kept it from me.”

“Steve, that’s garbage. Even if she didn’t mean to, that’s a rough spot to put you in.” 

Steve laughs, but it’s kind of wet and soggy. “No shit, it was…” He’s got nothing more to say about it. 

“Anyway, she got sicker and...I don’t know. You probably do, you work in a hospital, but I never really imagined what dying looks like. I always imagined that people were alive, or dead. I never thought about what the in between looks like. She slept a lot, but she never really rested, and everything just got harder.”

Steve remembers, for a minute, the first time she couldn't walk to the bathroom. She cried, and after he helped her clean up, he cried in his old bedroom, curled under the fleece dinosaur blanket she’d made for him, pilled fabric clenched in his fists. 

“One night, she just...fainted? Or passed out? And I couldn’t wake her up, and I couldn’t get her up on my own. Natasha was out of town, so I called an ambulance.

“She, uh, never really wanted people to know she was sick. I’ll see one of her friends around town, or they hit me up on Facebook, and they have no idea she died. So, I couldn’t have called anyone to help me but Nat, that’s the only person she’d let help her other than me. 

“So, at the hospital, I found out that she hadn’t made any decisions. And. I.”

Steve tips his head back into the booth. The vinyl is cool on the back of his neck, and the fluorescent light sears his eyes, burns the tears away. 

He feels the bench dip, and realizes that Bucky is beside him, not touching him but there, solid and quiet. He keeps talking to the light. 

He tells Bucky how there’d been a menu of options, to extend her life, to make her more comfortable, but nothing to make her lucid, nothing to bring her back or wake her up. Nothing to make her walk out of the hospital with him. 

He tells him how she did wake up, once, by chance, scared and disoriented. How she didn’t remember him, and how he decided to let her go, and held her hand until she died. 

“I think she remembered...my touch, even if nothing else. And I told her Dad was coming to get her, and then she was just...gone. It seems like it had lasted forever, and then it was over so fast, and I just...went home after.” 

He lets his head roll, slowly, until it comes to rest on Bucky’s shoulder. And in the middle of a fucking IHOP, he cries silently, the tears streaming down his cheeks and soaking Bucky’s jacket. 

The waitress starts to come back, coffee pot in hand, then does an abrupt about face when she sees the emotional excesses taking place. She doesn’t come back, and Bucky has to find her to get the bill. While he pays, Steve pulls himself together, getting into his jacket and blowing his nose, startling the teen girls in the booth next to him. He eats the rest of Bucky’s toast, too. Who puts jam on toast, then doesn’t eat it? 

On the train home, Steve feels light, almost giddy. Tonight had been awful, in a lot of ways, but he feels emptied out, burned clean. He’s apparently in a sharing mood, because he announces to Bucky, 

“I still get nightmares, like a lot. And more, lately. I think it’s because I like you.” 

“Steve, what the fuck.” 

“No! I mean. Ugh. One of the reasons I got so mad earlier, is because I’ve been...thinking a lot about us. Our relationship. Peggy’s not wrong, my mom always wanted me to settle down, and she’d have loved you. Thinking about that, it uh, seems like it upsets my brain, makes me sad, and I think it kind of...re-started some of the stuff that happened a lot early on.”

“Aww, Stevie.” Bucky’s hands had been hanging loosely in his lap, but he reaches out now, pinkie brushing the side of Steve’s leg, feather light. 

“I don’t know that I can say the same, my mom’s not too excited that I’m gay, let alone wants to meet my boyfriend. But I’d have loved to meet your mom. She had to have been good, to have made you.”

Steve’s apparently still got some tears in him, because they make a reappearance, though he hides them okay. 

“So...uh...are we boyfriends then?” 

“Steve, at this point, I’d be mad if you said we weren’t.”

“Great.” 

“Also, please call your friends tomorrow. They love you, a lot, and they miss you. If you wanna let that go though, it’s okay, it’s up to you, but you gotta talk to them regardless.” 

“Did you seriously think I had no friends except you and Nat?”

“Steve, I honestly didn't think about it too much. I lost pretty much all the friends when Gary and I broke up, and it didn’t help I moved here, the Seattle Freeze is fucking real. And, for all your complaints about your mom and Nat keeping stuff from you, you’re a pretty secretive dude. You’ve talked more about yourself tonight than you have in six months. And.” He coughs delicately. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been pretty invested in you and us together, not really if you can expand my social circle.” 

“Huh.” 

“Yeah.” 

When the train arrives, Bucky takes Steve’s keys, and he drives them back to Steve’s house. The night had been relatively clear in the downtown area, but back in the south end, it’s overcast, and as Steve fumbles for his house key, fat raindrops splatter the porch, landing on his glasses. 

“Oohh, I bet it’s gonna storm, look at those clouds!” 

Bucky sighs. “This fucking weather.” 

“Buck, it’s just gonna be like this, until May at least.”

“It’s just...constant.”

Shyly, Steve confesses, “I..uh, I bought you a sun lamp.” He had, in a haze of online shopping and a somewhat irrational fear that Bucky would decide to move to Arizona or somewhere else sunny and dry. 

“A what?” 

“It’s supposed to mimic the sun, help with people who get sad without it? And I also got you some vitamin D, you’re probably gonna get deficient which will make you hate the rain more.” Bucky looks like he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t, and Steve goes for broke. 

“You uh...wanna stay over?” 

“Yes.” Bucky says, very firmly, and then, as soon as they get through the door, Bucky is on him, kicking the door closed behind them. He takes Steve, by the waist, and Steve wraps his arms around his neck, curling into Bucky’s body. Bucky kisses him, everywhere, little, delicate kisses on Steve’s cheeks and his chin, over his swollen eyelids, and his forehead.

“Steve, I hate that you have nightmares, but...” and he trails off, kisses him a few more times, “But uh, I was afraid you might not like me as much as I like you.”

More kisses, down his neck. “And then, God, all your fucking friends…” And he’s pushing at Steve’s sweater, pulling the neckline aside and biting at his collar bone and the words are still tumbling out of him, total nonsense.

“...so fucking beautiful…and so _stupid_…everything you’ve been through.” 

Steve finds himself being divested of his sweater, it catching for a minute on his glasses before he can resettle them. And now Bucky is murmuring into his ear, telling him he’s brave and perfect and dramatic as fuck and it’s too much, Steve starts laughing, and he can’t stop. 

Because it’s so fucking clear. 

Steve’s been wrapped up in his head, and all the while, Bucky’s been saying I love you, with his hands and his heart, his dumb exercise sheets and gentle patience. And Steve has been too dumb to realize he's been saying it back, with s’mores and silly stories and making sure Bucky always has vegetables when he cooks, and now, finally, tonight, with his secrets and his sorrow. 

Bucky’s got him wrapped up like a goddamned octopus, arms everywhere and little sucking kisses, but Steve finally gets himself untangled and curves his hands over Bucky’s jaw, holding him in place and looking him over. His cheeks are rough under his fingertips, eyes shadowed, lips curved, and it’s like he’s holding his breath and it’s filling the air between them. 

He shakes him a little, gently. 

“Bucky Barnes, I fucking love you.” And the curve of Bucky’s lips is now a full on smile, teeth white in the shadows.

“I love that you don’t put up with any of my shit, but you’re so fucking sweet about it, I think you could make friends with anyone, or anything. I love Herman, and I love how much you love him. And God, you’re _so_ hot and you’re _so_ nerdy, and it’s like we were made for each other, our bad and our good together and _fuck_, the way you touch me, I’ll…” He trails off, as Bucky rests his fingers on his lips. They’re trembling, slightly. 

He’s still smiling though. “Jesus, Stevie, I didn’t prepare a speech or anything, but I love you too, I liked you right away, but I’ve loved you since...oh hell, I don’t even know. Definitely when I saw you sitting out in the rain, when we were camping. And a little, before that, when you tried so hard to cheer me up when we got that flat. You’re so intense, but you’re so patient with me. You make me feel...like something special.” 

And it’s Steve’s turn to interrupt, pulling Bucky’s face down to his and tilting his chin up. And when their lips meet, it feels like an exhale, a promise and a beginning. 

When they break apart, they’re both breathing hard, and Steve realizes they’re still standing in his living room, in the dark. He grabs Bucky’s hand, pulls him down the hall to his bedroom. The two of them are quiet and the storm that was threatening earlier has arrived, illuminating his bedroom with brief flashes of lightning, followed by deep rumbling thunder.

To Steve’s chagrin, he realizes he left the window above the bed cracked open, and the curtains are being whipped into a frenzy by the wind. “Shit!” Rushing over, he slams the window shut, frantically feels at the windowsill and bed, and whew, while errant rainwater is pooling on the sill, the sheets are still dry, and fuck, he forgot that he’d left his entire wardrobe strewn all over his bed. He tries to surreptitiously push the clothes off the edge of the bed, nudges them under with a toe even as he goes to switch on the bedside lamp. 

The light flashes on for a second, long enough for him and Bucky to glance at each other, and then, with a pop, it goes out, leaving them back in the darkness. 

“Fuck, it’s the wind. The grid here is overloaded, anytime there’s a storm or anything, we all lose power. I got candles though, and some lanterns and flashlights. And we don’t need much light.” 

Bucky snickers at that, and Steve’s heart is thrumming in his chest like a hummingbird, but he _does_ have candles and a lighter in his nightstand drawer from the last power outage, and in a few minutes, he has them lit, Bucky helpfully placing them around the room until they’re illuminated in the dancing, flickering lights.

Steve has to admit it’s pretty goddamn romantic, and he has the presence of mind to make sure that the overhead light and the bedside lamp are shut off. That aside, task done, Bucky seems to have gone a little shy on him, and he’s feeling the same. He kisses him on the cheek “Hey, I’m gonna brush my teeth, take my meds. You can use the bathroom here to get ready for bed, if you want? I’ll be right back.” 

Steve busies himself with his nightly routine, locking the doors, checking windows, shutting off lights, getting extra blankets from the linen closet since Bucky tends to get cold. He cleans up in the hall bathroom, briskly scrubbing himself with a washcloth, feeling grimy after the sweat-soaked nightmare of earlier. Teeth clean, pills taken, he changes into soft, worn boxers and t-shirt, and makes his way back to the bedroom. 

Steve stops in the doorway, autopilot shut off, feet locked in place. His bedroom is a tiny afterthought of a room tacked onto the end of a hallway, appealing as a master bedroom only because of the adjoining bath. But, Bucky’s out of the bathroom, leaning over his nightstand, looking at his photos and his other odds and ends; an extra inhaler and a stack of unread books, a dish full of loose change. As Steve stares at Bucky’s back, he feels like the small space is opening up between them, a chasm illuminated by candlelight and shifting shadows. 

Bucky’s hair is out of the braid, falling in loose waves over his shoulders, and Steve can see the end of his sleeve, stars falling in a finale over his shoulder blade. He notices the dimples at the base of his spine, and remembers how he’d wanted to kiss them on their camping trip, how he still hasn’t had the chance for that. Bucky’s shorts are red and faded, elastic worn, and the fabric is a little sheer over his ass and it’s sweet to Steve, sweet that despite dressing with care their date, he’d still shown up in old underwear. 

He’s not sure if it’s overconfidence or lack of confidence on Bucky’s part, but either way, he likes it, likes the way the faded fabric hugs him. He just likes looking at Bucky, at his legs not in sweats or long pants for once. His thighs look just as good as he thought they would that first day by Target; heavy and muscled and soft with hair, calves a smooth curve giving way to long, finely boned feet. 

Bucky shifts from foot to foot, rubs one foot against his calf and Steve suddenly realizes he’s shivering, arms wrapped around his middle and then the space is contracting back between them. When he wraps his arms around Bucky’s torso, rests his cheek between his shoulder blades, Bucky’s skin is cool, goosebumpy, and his hair is soft and tickly against his face.

“Hey, come on into bed, okay?” His voice is harsher than he means, choked up on nerves, and he knows he took his meds, but his heart is pounding in his chest anyways, and he swears he’s got some kind of arrhythmia going on right now. He shouldn’t have worried though, because no sooner does he speak than Bucky’s twisting away from him and diving into the bed, shivering a little theatrically until Steve crawls in after him, and then they’re falling into each other.

Steve can’t get enough of the feel of Bucky against him, wrapping around him; cool, smooth skin and coarse hair on his body, a stark contrast with the soft, dark hair falling across his pillow. He can’t stop kissing him; learning the feel of his lips, his cheekbones and his ears, all over again, following the path carved by flashes of lightning. Cool skin becomes warm, slick and for fucking once Steve feels like his body is cooperating and Bucky’s too, both of them moving against each other, talking in sighs and little gasps.

Steve slides his hands around Bucky’s back, feeling the bands of muscle on either side of his spine; neat vertical tracks that he follows down, ghosting his fingers over his dimples, delicate. When Bucky shivers, he does it again, and when he grips Bucky’s ass, Bucky groans, hips thrusting against him, and Steve laughs, squeezing again because Bucky’s ass is really delightful, almost as good as his thighs. 

And as soon as that thought is in his head, he’s pushing at Bucky, who lets himself be moved, lets Steve climbs over him and straddle his thighs. The pressure on his sprained ankle is a little uncomfortable, but the pain signals are distant and dull, easy to dismiss, especially with Bucky’s hands on him, smoothing over his calves and knees, running up his sides as far as he can reach, and back down again. 

Steve is just as eager, rubbing against Bucky in a slow, inexorable grind, smoothing his hands over his torso, fingertips trailing over his collarbone and throat. He can’t stop moving against Bucky, drunk on the contrast between the soft, pliant feel of his stomach, his chest and the hard length of his dick and he wants more, wants to get him squirming and frantic, wants more of the little sounds Bucky makes when he gets off, wants to crack him open and break him apart. 

He plucks at Bucky’s shorts. “Buck, can I take these off?” And Steve feels a thrill when Bucky nods, pleasant anticipation heavy in his belly and fingers shaking slightly as he fumbles with the waistband. Bucky lifts his hips obligingly, and Steve pushes them down, and then freezes, squints. Because it’s dark in the room, and he really...can’t be seeing what he’s seeing. 

“Bucky.”

“Yeah, what?” Bucky’s voice comes out breathy, strained.

“What the FUCK?!”

Bucky’s head snaps up, then sags back onto the pillows. 

“…Oh, yeah, that. I forgot.” 

Steve is incredulous. “Were you seriously just gonna let me suck your dick and not warn me you have a fucking Psyduck tattoo next to it?”

“Steve, do you seriously think it comes up a lot in casual conversation?”

“We’ve had a lot of non-casual conversations!”

Bucky spreads his arms expansively. “Stevie, I gotta Psyduck tattoo next to my dick. You still want to suck it? Or do you have a plan B?”

Steve’s nothing if not a trooper, and unfortunately, he does still want to blow Bucky, questionable tattoos aside. He makes sure to slide his hands over Bucky’s hips, palms covering the tattoo. He doesn’t think he can actually look at it and not laugh. 

Bucky’s gone a little soft, what with the prolonged conversation about his life choices, but he’s still got a nice dick, thick and curving, skin silky soft. Once Steve gets his mouth on it, Bucky’s fingers are tight in his hair and the best sounds are coming out of him, yes and please and Stevie and he manages to forget the tattoo, lost in the taste and feel of Bucky until Bucky falls apart under him, and then he pushes more, makes him desperate and squirming under him until he lets him go. 

After, Steve pads to the bathroom, rinses his mouth, while Bucky breathes, fingers on his own pulse, and Steve knows he’s feeling his heart rate slow, knows he probably went a little further than he should have. When he comes back in the room and Bucky grins at him, lazy and slow, he can’t regret it too much, regrets it even less when Bucky emerges from his sprawl to kneel on the bed, feet tucked under him, quilts tangled and half hanging off. 

“Steve, get over here.” And Steve goes. He’s barely clambered on the bed before Bucky pulls him close, tucking his body tight behind Steve’s, grip calloused and firm on his erection. Steve seems to lose all higher motor control, body collapsing back against Bucky, head tipped back on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky’s mouth is hot against his throat, a little rougher than usual, biting and sucking, right hand setting a quick, measured pace, left gripping Steve’s hip in a firm grip that anchors Steve, keeps him from being completely undone, though it’s a near thing. He’s pinned tight and stretched out, doesn’t recognize the sounds coming from his own throat; rough and broken and helpless. 

He’d have stayed there forever, letting Bucky work him over. He wanted to crack Bucky open, but he’s been wide open all this time and now his outside matches his inside, and he’s not sure if he’s going to come or cry, but either way, Bucky has him, will hold him and won’t let him go. 

But, it seems like he’s had enough, because Bucky peels his left fingers off Steve’s hip, gently turns his face and kisses him, tongue warm and wet and sliding over his own, right hand still moving, inexorable over him, and then he’s coming, body convulsing hard as his dick pulses in Bucky’s hand and Bucky keeps moving his hand, bringing him through it nice and easy and whispering gentle nonsense in his ear. 

After, they scrambled back into the mess of blankets and sheets, and Bucky tucked himself up against Steve, face buried into his neck. It’s good, familiar; they’ve lain like this before, under the stars and in his van, and he loves the feeling of Bucky against him, curling into his body. 

There are differences; they’re both considerably more undressed than ever before, and they’re in a bed, Steve’s bed, and they arrived here with a sense of intent that is new and unfamiliar. He feels like he’s fallen completely into Bucky, the last layers holding firm between them stripped away. But, Bucky’s feet are a familiar chilly weight, wedged between his calves and he smells the same; peppermint and sweat and sex, and Steve drifts for a while, hand smoothing absently up Bucky’s back and into his hair, and back down again. He feels pleasantly stupid, brain fuzzy and soft and any higher thoughts gone for the moment.

[ ](https://twitter.com/remiarty/status/1184542245388804096?s=20)

The glow begins to fade a little when Bucky begins to snore, raspy and harsh. It dissipates completely when Steve’s neck starts to become unpleasantly wet from what he suspects might be drool.

“Buck...Bucky!” He shakes him, gently, and Bucky comes awake with a snort. “...Wha?!” “You’re drooling. And snoring. Come on, up.”

“....No.” 

Despite Bucky’s protests, he gets up with Steve, shuffling into the bathroom to clean up. After, Bucky straightens the blankets, and Steve takes care of the candles, snuffing them out one by one. When Steve crawls back into bed, rain is still splattering against the roof, but the lightning is gone, the thunder rolling through only occasionally. Bucky sprawls next to him on his side, his post orgasm sleepiness seems to be gone, for the moment at least. His face is shadowed, but his voice is pensive, serious. 

“You’re carrying a lot of shit around in that head of yours.” Bucky curls his hand over Steve’s head, protective, like he can shield him from his own brain. “I’m glad you told me though.”

And Steve wants to tell him more, tell him something sweet, because Bucky took all the bad earlier and is still here with him, and the storm brought back memories he’d normally just push down.

“When I was a kid, my mom used to read me this book...it was about a little girl, and her grandma, and they’d make...um, I think it was storm cake? Thunder cake? It was really just a chocolate cake, but, uh, the whole book was that when a storm was coming, they had to gather the ingredients on the farm, and get it in the oven before it actually came.” 

Steve laughs, remembering. “My mom let us try to make it, when there was thunder and lightning, but, even without having to roam all over a farm, we never quite made it. Once, I cried, I got so amped up and then lost it when we didn’t finish in time. I mean, I’m sure I was more of a hindrance than a help to my poor mom.”

Bucky is laughing too, body shaking. “Haha, poor little Stevie. Hopefully the cake was still good?”

“Oh! Yeah, it was always good, even without the proper seasoning of lightning and thunder.”

“You still make it?”

“….Nah. I don’t even know what happened to that book. Might be weird. And I’m shit at baking.”

“Huh, well, next storm, you let me know if you want to give it a try. Might be kinda nice.” And before the mood can get too heavy, he rolls in close, blows a raspberry onto Steve’s neck, causing him to let out a very manly squeak. “Ugh, Bucky! Gross.” 

Bucky chuckles and runs a finger up Steve’s neck “Come on, come over here.” And Steve wraps himself around Bucky, cradles his head on his warm, solid chest. Bucky’s arms are tight around him and reassuring, and it’s just...really fucking nice. 

Bucky’s breaths are steady, regular, and Steve can feel his own breathing slowing to match, echoing each inhale, exhale in the quiet darkness. Steve’s brain is going soft around the edges, and from a long distance, he can feel Bucky’s grip loosen, hands trailing up his back and into his hair. And then, he doesn’t feel anything at all, drifting off gently between one breath and the next. 


	7. Spheal-ing My Heart, Making Me Real Happiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky are domestic and pretty gross about it.

Steve drifted out of sleep slowly, the world gradually filtering in through the open window over the bed; the smell of concrete damp from a gentle spring rain, the sound of birds rude enough to be up and talking about it on a Saturday morning, the sensation of his arm, weighed down, numb and heavy. 

Normally, he’d try to curl back into the soft sheets, catch a couple more hours of sleep while the bedroom is still cool and dark. But, as he gingerly tried to move his arm and failed, the reason for his suffering was immediately apparent. Sometime in the night, Herman snuck in, draping himself across Steve’s arm. Now, he’s utterly unmoved by Steve’s feeble movements, body limp and swaying gently in response. Bucky is no help at all, wound around both of them and dead to the world, unable to provide backup. 

When Bucky moved in (officially), Steve had been unreservedly excited. Sure, he’d been thrilled to have Bucky there full time, but he was also excited to be an (adopted) cat parent. He’d been woefully unprepared for the depth of psychological warfare implicit in sharing living space with a cat. Basically, Herman is a manipulative little shit, and Steve is way out of his depth. 

Last night, Bucky made a point of kicking the cat out of the bedroom, who had been perched on the foot of the bed like a particularly judgemental loaf of bread when they’d gotten home. Steve had protested, but Bucky was adamant that he did not want his cat critiquing him while he had sex. 

Somehow, he’s back in the room anyway, like an old bad penny, slowly compressing Steve’s arm to the point where he’s mildly worried the sensation might not come back. Or that his arm just might fall off.

Bucky has told him, time and again, “He’s a cat Steve, it’s his job to make you think he’ll die if you move him. Obviously he _won’t_, because if I didn’t move him, I’d never get anything done, and he’d have never lived this long.” 

Bucky has to make all the cat conduct rules, and enforce them, because Herman’s got Steve firmly wrapped around his small paws, incongruously dainty against his bulk. Steve does think the novelty will wear off eventually, but apparently, even in his subconscious he can’t bear to move the cat. Carefully shifting onto his side, he winces as his nerves start to wake up, little jolts running down his arm and setting his fingers tingling. But, he manages to avoid disturbing either the cat or Bucky, and he takes a minute to survey them both. 

Herman’s little face is smug, eyes shut tight, and he’s emitting a gentle, wheezy sound that could be a purr or a snore. Behind him, Bucky’s face is squished into Steve’s arm, hair tangled and loose across the pillows. He usually braids it or puts it up before bed, but last night they’d come home late, gotten distracted between ousting Herman and making out; slow and lazy until they’d fallen asleep, limbs entwined. Steve’s pretty sure that Bucky is going to bitch about detangling his hair once he’s up. 

Like his cat, Bucky is also emitting a wheezy sound, but it is not particularly gentle, and could only be considered a purr by the kindest of interpretations. The creases on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes are smoothed out in sleep, mouth relaxed and hanging open. His lower lip looks particularly soft, and Steve can’t resist stroking a thumb over it, pinching just a little. 

Bucky’s eyelashes flutter, and he groans and then whines in his throat, smacking ineffectively at Steve’s hand and shoving his face further into Steve’s arm. With the blankets heaped up around him (Bucky is a shameless blanket hog, but luckily Steve runs hot), all that is visible now is a mess of wild brown hair. 

He’s definitely going to bitch about the tangles. 

“Yeah okay, I’ll let you sleep.” Steve feels a little guilty. He knows his sleeping habits are bad; but he’s learned that Bucky’s are particularly pisspoor, for all of his efforts at healthy living. He usually goes to bed with Steve, but routinely gets up in the middle of the night, and then is up for work and out the door long before Steve is even stirring, leaving him with only a sleep hazed memory of a gentle kiss on his temple. Then, he sleeps most of the weekend, naps any chance he gets, and generally puts himself into even more of a messed up schedule. 

Steve’s done a little research on sleep hygiene, figures it’s something they can work on together, but that’s a conversation for future Steve and Bucky. He’s not quite ready to interrupt the grace they seem to have mutually granted each other around the topic, doesn’t want to dig into his own nightmares and late night weirdness. So, today at least, he’ll let Bucky sleep a while longer, and sets about gently extricating his arm from the double entanglement of his boys. 

Oh, and that makes him pause for just a minute _his boys_ and Steve’s eyes sting unexpectedly and it’s like a kick right in the chest because, yeah, these two guys are his, and he’s theirs.

Epidemic of feelings aside, sitting up makes him groan, wince in pain as he moves. His spine and his ribs ache; he usually moves around in his sleep, but last night he’d crashed hard and slept hard, deep and unmoving all night, pinned by cat and boyfriend. 

Now, he thinks he probably resembles a corpse coming out of a crypt, asleep for a hundred years and decrepit with it. Out of bed, he stretches, spine popping and ankles cracking, quietly pulls on his flag tank top and sweatpants, and creeps out of the room. 

He’s still a little sleep dazed as he wanders through the house before plopping down on the couch. Propping an ankle on the coffee table, he absently catalogues the changes in his home. 

Bucky is a bit of a slob, but he does _try_ and Steve had been surprised to (mostly) find the increased untidiness...pleasant. He worried that it would grate on his nerves, increase his desire to compulsively clean, but instead it relaxes him. He likes looking at the signs of their cohabitation, likes to see the extra toothbrush in the bathroom and Bucky’s pillbox in the kitchen next to Steve’s assortment of medications still in the bottles. 

There are little piles of hair bands on the coffee table and the night stand and any other surface, because Bucky compulsively pulls them out of his hair or off his wrist to play with and then leaves them behind. Herman eventually steals them, because his cat toys are just not entertaining enough, and when Bucky runs out completely, they move the couch or the bed and find roughly 500 of them, and then the cycle starts again. 

Bucky’s weird old sci-fi paperbacks circa 1970-something are piled up on the bookshelves with Steve’s notebooks and romance novels, his weights and bands for his arm stashed neatly in a basket. Bucky had come home with the basket after Steve tripped over the loose weights scattered on the floor for the third time. 

Extending his toes, Steve prods a pile of papers on the coffee table. Bucky has been keeping busy studying for some kind of certification in geriatric healthcare. As a result, there are textbooks everywhere with titles like “_Old Not Weak: Pumping Iron for Seniors_” and “_The Care and Keeping of the Old_” piled up with charts of medications and research papers on reducing fall risk. 

Bucky spends most evenings cross legged on the couch, poring over pages of color coded, carefully handwritten notes on aging physiology and the dangers of polypharmacy. He gets frustrated often; school had been easy for him before, and now it’s more difficult for him to focus, takes him longer to remember information he used to be able to glance at once and never forget.

Steve helps as much as he can, quizzing him and brewing endless cups of tea, bringing colored pens in every shade of the rainbow and crisp, empty notebooks when the old ones fill up. At least once or twice a week, when Bucky’s groans of exasperation become too regular and his hair is tangled from pushing his fingers through it, Steve yanks the offending book or notes from his hands, forces him outside for a walk or out to dinner or suggests he visit Al. 

He doesn’t think Bucky will be up anytime soon, so after spacing out on the couch for a while, Steve goes through his morning routine, showering quickly and brushing his teeth, electing to pull on jeans under his ragged tank top before taking his meds. After making coffee, he settles in with his laptop to take advantage of the quiet and relative peace. 

Time slips away, and before he knows it, he’s slamming his laptop shut. His feeling of triumph _another chapter done, take that!_ quickly evaporates into _shit it’s so late_ when he sees the time, sending him scrambling back into the kitchen to start breakfast. 

He digs through the fridge, pulling out anything that could be conceivably assembled into breakfast. Steve was initially unwilling to tolerate vegetables in his breakfast foods, but Bucky likes them, so he’s gradually slid from grudging acceptance into somewhat enjoying them. So, he heats left over veggies - mushrooms and onions, shreds of broccoli and spinach, scrambling them into eggs. After toasting bread, he goes to wake up Bucky, mug of tea in hand. 

Bucky’s taken advantage of Steve’s absence to sprawl over the entire bed, limbs stretched like a stranded starfish, Herman settled on his chest. “Come on sleepyhead, time to get up, there’s breakfast.” Setting down the tea, he pulls Herman off Bucky’s chest, leans in to kiss one cheek, then his forehead. His reluctance to disturb the cat does not extend to keeping Bucky from eating. Bucky doesn’t stir, even with the cat air-lifted off him.

“Buck, come on, you gotta get up, I made you breakfast.”

Bucky squints at him. “...food?”

“Yeah hon, food, it’s still warm, come on.” Bucky lets himself be coaxed into a sitting position, and Steve wraps his hand around the mug, trying to preempt any efforts to go back to sleep. For good measure, he herds Herman out of the bedroom ahead of him and busies himself putting down cat food and getting out plates and silverware. A few minutes later, Bucky shuffles out, wrapped in a blanket and hair a true disaster, but face lighting up when he sees Steve and the pile of eggs. 

They eat together, crammed in at the old wooden table, knees knocking together and Herman curled into the blanket pooling around Bucky’s feet. After, Bucky cleans up the kitchen in his underwear, leaving the blanket draped over a snoozing Herman and Steve enjoys the view while ostensibly reading, letting his gaze drift over the muscled, furry legs and long, slender feet, absently marking the familiar tattoos covering Bucky’s body - the stars wrapping his left arm and trailing down his chest and shoulder, the paw prints on the right arm and the portrait of Herman on his right calf. The Psyduck tattoo is hidden under his boxers, Bucky insisting he’s going to get it covered, but somehow never following through. Steve’s used to it now. 

He’s not used to the newest tattoo yet, foggy, dreamy evergreens, a cloudy night sky with hints of stars peeking through, a tiny red van barely visible at the base of the trees entire tableau wrapping around his ribs. Steve had been appalled when he’d seen it. But when he’d lectured Bucky how he really should not get large, impulsive tattoos with his boyfriend’s mom’s car on them, Bucky had just smiled, kissed him until he was breathless. 

And _okay_, it is a little charming, and really, Bucky moved to Washington on impulse, and that’s worked out okay for both of them, so Steve doesn’t complain anymore. 

Going for more coffee, Steve can’t resist gently running his hand down Bucky’s bare back, reaching up to ruffle his gravity defying hair and Bucky flicks water from the sink at him. 

“Steve, what time do we gotta leave by?”

Steve pauses to think. It’s another Community Day this afternoon, Bagon, and even though neither Steve nor Bucky play as much anymore, Steve had hesitantly invited his friends to play with them that day. 

He’s been working on himself, trying to rebuild his relationships. It’s slow going; his first instinct is still to get angry or panic, avoid everyone, but he’s been making efforts to tell his friends what he needs. He can breathe easier when there’s an activity to focus on, something to detract attention from himself, and Pokémon continues to fill that need. He’s aware that it's a coping mechanism, but, well, it’s worked for him in the past, continues to work. 

“Um, you got about an hour.” Bucky groans, but shuffles off to the shower without further protest. Steve stops reading long enough to change into his favorite Eevee shirt, and then spends the rest of the time frantically updating his app and clearing out his Pokémon inventory. 

It doesn’t take Bucky long to get ready, but it does take Steve a while to get organized, over preparing for a casual day with an extra battery pack, his own phone cable, an extra that works with Bucky and Nat’s phones (because they do not agree with him that they should all have phones with the same cable for convenience). He’d also brought snacks, and water, and had run back into the house at the last minute for an umbrella. Bucky still does not have a properly water-proofed jacket and can be a jackass when he gets rained on, and Steve does not trust the look of the clouds. Bucky rolls his eyes at the umbrella, a bright yellow tourist one Steve had accidentally liberated from an outdoor shopping mall, but obediently takes it when Steve shakes it at him. 

Despite Steve’s shenanigans, they’re pulling into the parking lot of the park they’d selected earlier in the week within an hour. Steve parks the van, and they get out. The drizzle from earlier has cleared, sunshine peeking through gray clouds. Bucky stretches, and he looks just as good to Steve as he did when they met, loose jeans and black boots and his jacket with the soft, fuzzy collar. 

“Stevie, you ready?” He pops his phone out of his pocket, checks the time and grins. “We got about 5 minutes before Bagon start showing up.” Steve finishes fussing around with the back of the van, gets it closed up and they set out together, both catching aimlessly while they look for their group, Bucky happily rambling about the Great Porch Rebuild project, Steve half listening. 

Al’s porch finally collapsed earlier in the year (Bucky panicked when he’d seen the pile of sad, rotten wood, but Al somehow escaped any injury, the only damage done to a freshly opened beer and her pride), and he and Al have been trying to build a new one ever since. Neither of them knows jack shit about carpentry, so it’s been an ongoing adventure in endless trips to Home Depot for supplies, DIY library books, and blistered hands. So, Bucky is trying to talk Steve into transporting yet more wood to Al’s later this weekend, when he stops mid word, staring intently at his phone screen. 

“Buck, what’s up?” Bucky shakes his head, wordless. Steve starts to get worried. “You okay? What’s wrong?” 

And without another word, eyes wide, Bucky flips his screen to face Steve.

And Steve finds himself staring at a shiny, golden Magikarp, flopping awkwardly on its side. He’s speechless, not sure what to say. Sure, he’s not _mad_ and the fact of the matter is, Bucky is incredibly lucky when it comes to getting shinies. 

But, he’s still being faced with his holy grail, so close, and yet so far. 

Bucky flips his phone back around, and his fingers move over the screen, quick and coordinated. 

“Stevie, I’m trying to trade with you, you gotta accept the request though.” And in a daze, Steve looks back at his own phone, opens the trading screen with BuckDaBAMF.

And then it hits him. “Wait, no Bucky, you can’t trade me the Magikarp! You don’t have a second one!”

“Nope, it’s yours, I don’t want it. Come on, pick something to trade.” 

“Bucky…”

“You don’t take it Steve, I’ll transfer it away and no one will have it.” He grins, sudden. “It’s kind of our anniversary anyway, I think we met in April.”

(They did kinda met in April, Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever forget his first glimpse of Bucky at that dumb Target raid.)

Steve’s weak, and he can’t protest anymore. Fingers shaking, he picks an Eevee, a shiny one, with good stats, and sends it over. 

And. The trade goes lucky, and Steve is very abruptly the proud owner of a shiny, lucky Magikarp and is just as abruptly overcome, throwing his arms around Bucky’s neck with a whoop and then trying to kiss him. The potential romance of the moment is disrupted when he knocks Bucky’s phone out of his hands, and they both scrabble madly for it. Steve fumbles it once, twice, and then manages to get his hands around it. As he goes to hand it back to Bucky, he notices the screen. 

“Hey!! Bucky!!”

“What?” Bucky looks relieved he won’t be having to replace his phone after Steve’s enthusiasm.

“What the fuck?!” He points at the screen, at the Eevee Steve traded to him. 

Bucky smirks. “It’s cute! And it’s a tiny Eevee, and I got it from you. What else am I gonna name it?” 

Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes, because Bucky did just trade him the Pokémon that he has been looking for, that he has caught more than 2,000 times without any luck. He hands over the phone, with the tiny Eevee that Bucky has had the _imminently_ bad taste to name Steevee, and Bucky tucks the phone into his pocket, safe and secure. 

And now, it’s safe for Steve to maul Bucky a little, grabbing his face in his hands and kissing him on the cheek, on his forehead and finally his lips. He’s kind of messy and uncoordinated about it, and Bucky is laughing at him until Steve pauses in sudden terror because he realizes he _didn’t fucking save_ the golden Magikarp, what may very well be the symbol of Bucky’s love for him, and he is absolutely certain he has accidently transferred it. 

He didn’t, thank fucking God, so he manages to correct his mistake, and now it’s well into Community Day and past time to meet their group. 

He holds out his hand, and Bucky smiles at him, sweet and wide, takes his hand. The sun feels good on his face, and Bucky’s hand feels good in his, calloused and slightly cool and familiar. Squeezing it tight, his ribs suddenly feel too small for his heart, his lungs and fuck how is he still like this, how does Bucky still do this to him? He can’t speak. He presses his lips to Bucky’s knuckles, hair falling over his face. 

Steve had felt like he was broken, in some undefinable, nagging way. He’d been content, enough. He enjoyed his job, treasured his friendship with Nat, loved every inch of his house. But, he’d been unwilling, or unable to reach out, nourish a different connection. He’d written happy endings, but he hadn’t been happy, hadn’t even seen it as an option. 

The loss of his mom will always be a nagging regret, sometimes gentle, sometimes demanding, rolling around inside him. He’s not settled with it yet, still has work to do, but hell, so does Bucky, and now they’re walking together, side by side and Steve thinks there is no one else he’d want to do this with. 

Overcome, he mumbles into Bucky’s hand “Bucky, I love you. I love you so much.” 

Bucky lifts his other hand, and his fingers are trembling a little, but he strokes Steve’s hair anyway, back away from his face. “Hey, love you too.” He laughs, “Come on, Stevie, let’s go.”

And they go, walking together, hand in hand, up the path, into the sunshine, and Steve’s got a smile on his face. Because he’s home now, _he’s always home_, because home isn’t just him, alone in his house anymore, it’s Bucky and his familiar, loved face and gentle hands and the happy endings they’ll write together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT IT'S THE END! 
> 
> All the awesome art in this story was created by remiarty and can be seen on [twitter](https://twitter.com/remiarty)!!
> 
> I can also be found lurking on [twitter](https://twitter.com/powercrow1) :)
> 
> [Pokédex](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20781254/chapters/49384613)


	8. Steve and Bucky's Pokédex

|  |  |   
---|---|---|---  
Onix - Rock Snake Pokémon | Kyogre - Sea Basin Pokémon | Eevee - Evolution Pokémon | Magikarp - Fish Pokémon  
|  |  |   
Shiny Magikarp! | Machop - Superpower Pokémon | Ralts - Feeling Pokémon | Pidgey - Tiny Bird Pokémon  
|  |  |   
Cyndaquil - Fire Mouse Pokémon | Mareep - Wool Pokémon | Raichu - Mouse Pokémon | Groudon - Continent Pokémon  
|  |  |   
Bulbasaur - Seed Pokémon | Incineroar - Heel Pokémon | Machamp - Superpower Pokémon | Mr. Mime - Barrier Pokémon  
|  |  |   
Snorlax - Sleeping Pokémon | Chansey - Egg Pokémon | Pikachu - Mouse Pokémon | Paras - Mushroom Pokémon  
|  |  |   
Absol - Disaster Pokémon | Chikorita - Leaf Pokémon | Moltres - Flame Pokémon | Porygon - Virtual Pokémon  
|  |  |   
Furret - Long Body Pokémon | Castform - Weather Pokémon | Hariyama - Arm Thrust Pokémon | Happiny - Playground Pokémon  
|  |  |   
Bayleef - Leaf Pokémon | Shaymin - Gratitude Pokémon | Bagon - Rock Head Pokémon | Spheal - Clap Pokémon  
Psyduck - Duck Pokémon


End file.
